My Life as I Know It
by In A Tizzy
Summary: Biography of John Truman Carter III as told by John Carter. Covers his childhood thru present - where we left him at the end of Season 15. Newest Chapter: My Mother Mid Season 8.
1. Bobby, Gamma and Me

**Bobby, Gamma and Me**

I entered this world in the summer of 1970. Both my mother and father came from rich stock. My fraternal great grandfather made millions in the mining industry and the related field of energy. On my mother's side were the "captains of industry" where fortunes were made in manufacturing during the industrial revolution and the earnings parlayed into financial success on Wall Street.

When wealth is generational, certain values are instilled in each new crop of youngsters. My brother Bobby and I were no different. We were taught not to be showy with our money, but always to be generous. We were schooled in the economic principle that quality is always more important than quantity. We were encouraged to be conservative in style and not be flashy. But probably the most important thing we were taught, is that everyone is created equal by God and no matter how much money you have, you cannot change that.

I learned at an early age, that money changes nothing. To truly make change, you have to work hard, you have love like there's no tomorrow, you have to have passion for what you're doing and you have to have a plan. I look back and I see how that childhood training formed my basic character, how it drives me as an adult. Sometimes I wonder how it would have affected Bobby if he had lived into his adulthood. Bobby. His death is also something that has profoundly affected my character.

Bobby and I were less than two years apart. We were closer than brothers really. We were each other's best friend. It was a good thing too. My parents loved to travel and we were always taking trips. Bobby and I would have the best time going off to hike, swim, ski, or whatever kid friendly activities our vacation destination held for us. Our parents always made sure there were fun things for us to do where ever we went. It gave us time to be boys and them time to enjoy adult activities.

The best vacation we ever took was for my 11th birthday. We went to the big island of Hawaii and stayed on a real ranch for an entire week while Mom and Dad enjoyed a spa resort that would have bored us to tears. We rode horses helping to round up the cattle, we camped outside under the stars and ate chuck wagon style. We had the time of our lives. Bobby decided right then and there he wanted to grow up to be a cattle ranching cowboy in the tropical paradise.

When we got back to Chicago, Bobby mercilessly begged for a horse. By that Fall, Dad caved and we both got horses. Gamma insisted that we needed riding lessons so we would "respect the beasts and take proper care of them." Bobby was ecstatic at the prospect. He was so natural on a horse, it was like he was meant to be an equestrian. He hoped to be able to compete the following summer.

He never got the chance. He started getting sick over the holidays that year. Ear infections, strep infections, UTIs, one after another they came. It seemed like mom was taking him to the doctor every other week. The endless parade of infections left him pale and weak. Gamma insisted he needed to get out of the cold Chicago air. We went to Paris for a vacation during Spring Break. Bobby spent most of the trip in the hotel room. He had such terrible pain he didn't feel like doing anything fun. Paris was the last vacation we ever took as a family.

The plane ride home from Paris was scary. Bobby was so nauseous the whole flight. Mom put him in the window seat, but he didn't look out the window at all. He spent the entire flight head down in her lap, his hand wrapped around an airsick bag, quietly whimpering. Mom didn't say anything, but she looked worried. She just kept stroking his sweat drenched hair. I sat across the aisle, next to Dad. He didn't speak much during the flight either, he just sat there slowly drinking his scotch. Time moved so slowly it seemed as if the flight lasted days.

We landed at O'Hare and went straight to the hospital. We sat around for hours while the doctors worked to diagnose Bobby. Finally, two doctors came out and led my parents away to another room. I stayed behind with my grandparents and waited. They were gone a long time and the longer it took, the more nervous my grandparents got. When they finally emerged, I could see my mom had been crying. She sat down on the bench with me as my father took my grandparents away to another room. I wanted to make her feel better and I tried to sneak under her arm and give her a hug, but she was rigid and unyielding. I couldn't get my arms around her. I knew it was bad and I remember getting very frightened at that point. After another long while, my Dad and grandparents came back out. My parents stayed at the hospital and my grandparents took me home.

The ride home was completely silent. I was so scared. When we arrived at their house, Gamma took me into the kitchen and offered to fix me a snack. I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to know what was going on with my brother. I asked her "Bobby is dead isn't he?" She put her hand on mine and explained that Bobby had leukemia and he was very sick, but he was alive. That's as much as my parents or grandparents would ever tell me.

The rest of Bobby's life was spent in and out of the hospital for treatments in the futile attempt to save his life. Even when he was home, he wasn't feeling normal, so I knew something was wrong. We talked about his leukemia. Mom kept telling him he'd get better, that he'd be able to ride his horse again soon, he'd be able to ride in competition and do all the fun things he wanted to do. But he knew differently. He let me in on his secret. He told me that Mom had to pretend like that so she can deal with it, but he knew he wasn't going to get better. The doctors told him the cancer would get worse. I remember being surprised by the cancer word. Up until that point, leukemia was just the name of his disease. No one told me it was a kind of cancer. Now we both had to pretend he was going to get better, for mom's sake.

Bobby celebrated his 10th and final birthday in the hospital. I remember the party we had for him. It was attended by other cancer kids at the hospital, his doctors and nurses and of course, our family. The doctors always told Mom and Dad what was going on, but no one ever took the time to explain things to me and I had to help Bobby pretend, so I couldn't ask. I just watched my brother get sicker and weaker and it became scarier and scarier for me as the leukemia ravaged more and more of his body. At that party though, one of the doctors took the time to sit and talk with me. Dr. Thomas let me ask all the questions I wanted answers to and he explained things in a way that I could understand. He let me talk about what I felt and he actually listened. He put his arm around my young shoulders and told me the days ahead would be rough, my brother was going to go through some really tough treatments and that he would need me to be strong for him.

This man made a lasting impression on me. As the days and weeks went by and Bobby's condition continued to spiral down, I would remember his words of encouragement. Whenever he saw me at the hospital, he would put his arm around my shoulders and ask me how it was going. He comforted me in a way my parents and grandparents were too busy to do. His willingness to step outside his responsibility and make sure I was coping both impressed and inspired me. To this day, I give him credit for the motivation to become a doctor and practice medicine the way I do.

My 12th birthday came and went without acknowledgement. It was the first of many that would pass that way. This year though, it was because Bobby was critically ill, near death. No one felt like celebrating, especially me. I was losing my brother and now I knew it. Birthdays would never be something I looked forward to again. Birthdays always felt empty and hollow without my brother and best friend, so I was never inclined to bring it up. Even now, in my adulthood, I don't make any kind of fuss over my birthday and generally let the day pass like any other.

As the summer of '82 wore on, Bobby's health continued to decline, and my parents, especially my mother, became more and more emotionally distant. One of the last things Bobby did in his life, was make me promise to love Mom enough for both us, so she wouldn't feel bad that he was missing. The next day, he slipped into a coma and a few days later, he lost his battle with leukemia.

Bobby's death was particularly hard on me. The grief of losing my brother and best friend was unbearable. To add to the devastation I felt, my mother shut down emotionally and took my father with her. In essence, I lost my parents along with my brother. Life went on, but it was never the same. I tried to honor my promise to Bobby. I kept taking riding lessons, I even competed in equestrian events until I entered medical school. I managed to win some competitions, but I can't help but wonder how many more Bobby would have won. He was the real rider; the one that was born to be on a horse.

After Bobby's death, Mom couldn't take living in our house so we moved in with Gamma and Gampa. I guess even that was difficult for her because she was seldom home. She would go off to Europe for months at a time, come home for a month and then be off to the Caribbean. She'd be gone for a month or two before coming home and before I knew it, she'd be off again. Whenever Dad could get away, he'd join her. Needless to say, my grandparents stepped in and parented me through my teens.

The best memories I have from my childhood after Bobby died are of sitting in the kitchen with Gamma talking. She was always there to lift me up when my day had been too much, she was there to laugh with me when something funny happened, and she was there to rejoice with me when I succeeded at something. She was there for all my equestrian competitions, she was there for every play I did in high school and college, she was there for my high school, college and med school graduations. She threw a party to celebrate when I passed my MCATs and she threw another one when I got accepted into the surgical program. She was there for me when I got stabbed, and she worried about me when I went through my drug addiction. Even though we didn't always see eye to eye and there were some rough patches over the years, I was far closer to her than my own mother. She is the woman who raised me.


	2. College Days and Geeky Ways

**College Days and Geeky Ways**

Gamma and Gampa both went to Vanderbilt University. It's where they met and fell love. My Dad is Vanderbilt alumnus as well. I guess you could say it's a Carter family tradition. It was just sort of expected that I'd follow in their footsteps. As one of the top 10 premed schools in the country, I was happy to show my family allegiance and apply. My entire family, Mom and Dad included, were happy to know I would be earning my degree from this prestigious university.

Being away from home wasn't as difficult as people led me to believe. I guess the kind of traveling my family did when I was a kid and all the traveling my parents did in my teens, helped to prepare me for the separation. I ambitiously undertook a double major of Biology and Chemistry and buried my nose in my books. Yes, I was that geek kid that was forever in the library studying.

It was a comfortable place for me to be. For the first time, I felt like I was living my own life my own way. I was doing what I wanted to do, not what my family dictated that I should do. It was the first really freeing experience of my life. I stayed in a dorm that was designated for premed kids. We were a studious group that didn't have time for the wild college life others talk about so nostalgically.

Just because I wasn't into the wild parties and bar hoping that so many college kids engage in, doesn't mean I didn't manage to find a little time for some recreational fun. In my Junior year, there was one biology class I thoroughly enjoyed. It wasn't the subject matter, it was the TA. In class, her hair was always twisted up in one of those clip things and she had the prettiest blue eyes. I actually feigned stupidity and went up to her after class to ask for help. She agreed to do some private tutoring. We met in the library, but ended up in my dorm room. I pulled loose the clip and her hair came spilling down, long, blonde, beautiful hair. Oh she was one hell of a sexy woman. She taught me biology like no one else ever has. She continued to "tutor" me until the end of the term when she completed her doctoral degree and left to go work for the CDC in Atlanta.

I returned to pouring myself into my textbooks and labs. The diligent study paid off. Even though they weren't crazy about my being premed, Gamma and Gampa beamed with pride when I graduated summa cum laude. It was a huge accomplishment that I achieved through self discipline and a tremendous amount of hard work. I was proud to graduate with honors and it was great to be able to share that with my grandparents. It hurt like hell that my parents were not able to be there to share it with me though. Understanding their behavior was still years away.

The rigorous undergraduate academics helped prepare me for the MCATs where I also scored well. It gave me the luxury of deciding where I wanted to go to medical school instead of settling for the medical school that would have me. I could have gone to Yale or Harvard or any other Ivy League school of my choice, but I wanted to go back to Chicago. That sounds a bit morbid right? My parents had all but abandoned me and all I wanted was to go back home? I missed Gamma. I missed our kitchen conversations, I missed the hot chocolate she would make me on snowy winter afternoons, I missed her counsel. Four years away, I had done quite a bit of growing up, becoming my own person and felt I was ready to go back home.

I chose the University of Chicago not only because it was close to home, but because the school places great emphasis on the diversity of its students. My peers would cross racial, cultural and religious boundaries, increasing my social awareness, preparing me for the various people I would serve in my professional career. I wanted to help all people, not just people who look like me. A lot of the medical students are placed at Cook County General Hospital. It's a hospital that serves a very diverse community. I felt it would provide a solid foundation for the kind of medicine I wanted to practice.

I thought I was prepared for the long and grueling course work and schedules demanded by medical school, but even I was surprised by how much more effort it took just to keep up. A typical day required something between 12-15 hours dedicated to the study of medicine. The amount of detailed and intricate information you must assimilate, retain, recall and apply in order to understand your class material and lectures and do your labs is daunting, but it's the same information you'll need to diagnosis and treat your patients. You don't want to kill anyone, so you put in whatever effort is necessary commit it all to memory.

Now living at home, med school was a rather therapeutic way for me to deal with my dysfunctional family. I was so focused on learning all that I needed to, that I didn't pay much attention to the clock or the calendar. Holidays and weekends would pass for me like any other day. I just kept working at my studies. Late hours in the lab or library were not a problem for me. I didn't feel lonely or sorry for myself, I didn't worry about the fact that my parents weren't around much or that they were disinterested in my chosen career, I didn't have the time or energy for it.

For six years, I worked damn hard at learning, at absorbing information, learning how to put it together and pull it part, figure out how it all creates the balance and function of the human body. Finally at long last, I was ready to put it all into practice. I was ready to start my rotations.


	3. Season of Firsts, Season 1

**Season of Firsts**

My first day at County was like a tidal wave crashing over me. From the moment Dr. Benton introduced himself and started a rapid fire stream of information designed to intimidate to the end of that first shift, it was one long, exhilarating, exhausting ordeal. After Benton's 10 minute crash course tour of all that is the ER, I was turned loose to suture and start IVs.

It was time to sink or swim. This was what I had spent the last six years preparing for. With some trepidation, I took those first few solo steps. My inaugural patient was Frank, a man that years later would be one of our desk clerks. I had to start his IV. Trying my best to remember the 5 second demo Benton did during my tour, I carefully and cautiously inserted the needle and missed the vein, twice. There was no way to mask my nervousness. He knew I was a newbie; called me on it. Same thing happened when I did my first sutures. The patient looked at me, eyes wide with apprehension, as I nervously inserted the needle to make my first stitch. She watched me put in each stitch like a hawk. I knew she was aware this was a new and unfamiliar procedure for me.

Fortunately, the ER has a way of indoctrinating you quickly. I must have started 50 IVs that day and sutured another 50 patients. I can't say I was perfect at it by the end of my shift, but I was certainly more at ease with these procedures. I was also exposed to a wide variety of medical situations, from rehydrating a drunk to the highlight of my first day, watching Dr. Greene deliver a baby. To see new life emerge into the world, it's an incredibly awesome experience I hope I never get over.

I remember being totally exhausted at the end of that day. I was spent, both physically and mentally. I didn't want to leave before my resident, so I stayed well past my scheduled hours. As long as I stayed, they kept finding me patients needing IVs or sutures, or giving me scut work to do. It got to the point where I just couldn't maintain an upright position, so I found some empty chairs, the kind made of molded plastic, and laid down across three of them, falling directly to sleep. It was a very stupid thing to do. I woke up the next morning with a very sore back, no change of clothes, no shower, not even a toothbrush. That notwithstanding, I began day two which was every bit as busy as day one.

Another first year memory burned into my mind, is the first time I saw death. In my case, it was this kid, a boy who came in as a trauma patient. Tensions and voices rose as the monitors signaled an ever worsening condition. Then I heard the flat line and Dr. Langworthy say "time of death 10:06". The words reverberated around in my ears as if refusing to enter my brain. I heard Haleh say that we lose them all the time, but that didn't make the moment any easier to deal with. I looked down at the table, I couldn't believe he was gone. While his body was racked with trauma, his face looked like he was sleeping peacefully. This couldn't be true. This boy started his day like any other. I'm sure he plans for that evening, that weekend, but those plans would never happen. It seemed like such a senseless tragedy. I stood there staring at him, unable to process the flood of emotions that came upon me.

Someone was able to determine where he went to high school and they had a school official drop off their yearbook. Benton ordered me to identify the patient from the book. I was still trying, unsuccessfully, to make sense of the death, to process it, to accept it. Walking back into that trauma room was unbelievably hard. I folded back the sheet that covered his head and sat down with the book comparing pictures with the face I saw before me. I tried to keep my composure as I worked through the pages. It wasn't easy and I did lose control briefly, but I made myself buck up. I was afraid someone would walk in and see that I broke down. What kind of a doctor would I be if I couldn't handle this? I finally found a picture that matched the patient's face. I read the description underneath it. I remember thinking the kid was kind of nerd, not unlike me.

So we called the patient's parents to let them know he was here at the hospital. I stood there and watched as Dr. Benton delivered the bad news. Overcome with grief, the boy's father asked to see his son. We took them into the trauma room so they could say their goodbyes. It turned out it was not their son. Benton went ballistic. I thought I was going to be as dead as the boy on the table. He ordered me to find the correct name and told me I would have to tell the parents.

Shaking like a leaf, I had to sit down and go through the process again. This time it was worse. Having seen the reaction of those parents, I inflicted additional pressure on myself to make a correct identification. When I couldn't find another picture that looked like it could be the boy, I called the school. Two pictures were transposed. They gave me the correct contact information. When the boy's parents arrived, I had to tell them about their son. Having to coral my own emotions and deliver the news seemed like an impossible feat. As much as I wanted to sound as professional as I'd heard Dr. Benton, my heart went out to these parents as I told them about their son. I thought about how it must have been for my parents to hear about my brother Bobby. I talked to these parents with the same compassion I hope the doctor used when he told my own parents about my brother. All these years later, it's still the way I share that kind of news.

One day, a mother brought in her scared little daughter who had fallen off some monkey bars on the playground. She was in tears, hurting and frightened. I held her hand as we went up to X-Ray her leg. It was indeed broke. Her mother held one hand and I held the other as Dr. Ross set her leg. She screamed and cried through the process. I tried to be as comforting to her as I could. When it was over, I casted her leg for her and joked about all the sympathy she would be able to command from her friends at school. It seemed to cheer her up. She asked me to sign her cast, which I proudly did. I got her some crutches and showed her how to use them. She thanked me with a kiss on the cheek. Her mother told me I had the honor of being her first crush. I smiled at her and told her to look me up in 15 years. She gave me the sweetest smile back. It's patients like her, that make all the sacrifice, all the study, all of the hard work, all the long hours, every bit of it, worth it.


	4. Benton, Bob and Chen, Season 1

**Benton, Bob and Chen**

Another thing about your first rotations that you never forget, are the people who profoundly touch your life in some way. My first rotation at County exposed me to three people who shaped the way I approach and treat people. Each has helped form the person and doctor you know me as today.

Dr. Peter Benton was my resident, my teacher and my mentor. Our relationship that first year, and actually for several years to come, was not easy. Our communication styles and the way we each related to patients were as different as night is from day. Peter Benton was the consummate science guy. For him, it was all about the body, the physical, the function. It made him an excellent healer from whom I would learn so much. While I as a student had nothing to offer in return, I do hope that I at least inspired him to be a little more personable with his patients.

One night this lonely old man came into the ER. There wasn't much we could do for him, he was near death on arrival. We treated his immediate needs, got him stabilized and left the trauma room. After my shift, I went back to sit with him. He had no one in his life to keep him company and I didn't feel right leaving him alone. After he passed away, I went to the lounge to work on my charts. Benton entered the room and noting that the charts should have already been done and turned in, asked me what I was doing. I told him that I had spent the last couple of hours sitting with the dying man. He asked me why I wanted the surgical sub internship. I told him because I wanted to be a surgeon. He responded by saying "Give it up Carter, you don't think like a surgeon." I remember thinking that it wasn't necessary for surgeons to be dispassionate about people. It seemed to me that it's in the patient's best interest to care about their whole being, not just their body.

Day after day, patient after patient, Benton was consistent in his approach, except for one particular day. A teenage girl came in by ambulance, she suffered some deep cuts while seizing. The convulsions turned out to be diabetic complications due to not taking her insulin. She wasn't surgical, but Benton insisted on being kept updated of her status and treatment. When she was stable and coherent, he went in to talk to her about being disciplined with dietary needs and taking her insulin. Benton spoke with passionate concern. I was quite impressed. It was later that I learned from Dr. Greene he had lost his father to diabetes when he was still in medical school. I learned that day he was not a dispassionate man, just one that doesn't make an outward expression of his feelings. It changed my attitude toward him. From that point on, I had a deeper respect and admiration for him.

Even though I held Benton in high regard, I spent a lot of time that first year completely frustrated by him. When I did get him to express emotion, it tended to be impatience or irritation. Nothing I ever did seemed good enough or fast enough to please him. We were like oil and water. As much as I sought his approval, as hard as I worked to get it, it just wasn't going to happen. He seldom acknowledged anything worthy of praise, least of all, anything I did.

That's an attitude not unlike the one displayed by my parents. As a kid, I worked hard to get on the honor roll at school, but never got praised for it. In college, I worked hard and made the dean's list quarter after quarter, graduated with high honors and both my parents acted like it was just something that everyone is capable of and does. It occurred to me that I strived so hard to get his approval because I was never able to get that from my parents. He was my resident, my teacher, and in a way, sort of my medical parent. With that realization, a bond started to form between us that's hard to define; somewhat parent-child, somewhat teacher-student with a bit of friendship and brotherly love tossed in. It was my sheer stubbornness to let go, that he allowed the bond to continue year after year, eventually becoming a strong relationship based on respect, trust, friendship and love that we have today.

It strange, the people you meet that seem like minor players and yet can make just as big of an impact on your life as any of the people closest to you. One of those people in my life was Bogdana Lewinski, better known in the ER as Bob. She came to the United States with her family. The political climate in Poland was unsure, but unemployment was definitely rising. Her family fled their homeland in search of better opportunity here in the land of the free. Unfortunately for her, there were costs to pay.

In Poland, Bob was a vascular surgeon, but because she couldn't speak English, she couldn't pass the boards here and without passing the boards, there was no practicing medicine for her. None of us knew this until she leaped into action during an emergency in the ER. We were working several traumas at once. There were not enough doctors to handle the load. She was in a room where a patient was going to die if someone didn't cross clamp his aorta literally right then. Selflessly she performed the surgery, not considering the consequence until afterward.

Realizing she'd just practiced medicine without a license, an act that could prevent her from being licensed, she fled out of the ER and into the cold Chicago night. I noticed her sitting on the snowy curb when I assisted a patient out to their car. It had to be twenty degrees outside, but she wasn't wearing a coat. I knew something was wrong. She told me what happened. I let her know it would be alright and that I would help her learn English so she could take her boards.

For several months, we worked on getting her basic English skills up to a functional level. I got to know her as a person. She was warm and friendly. She had a lot of stories to tell about her childhood, about being a medical student and doing her residency in Poland. She talked about the overthrow of communism in her country and the rise of a more democratic government. It was fascinating how much history she lived, the difficult times she faced, persevered, and survived. She triumphed over so much adversity, she was an inspiration to me that I could survive medical school, and Benton, and all the rest of it.

I couldn't help but be impressed with her family life. She gave up her position as a vascular surgeon to come here with her family. Unable to speak English, she took a job in housekeeping. As we worked on her English and it improved, she moved up to desk clerk. To go from such a respected position as surgeon to one so low on the ladder, it's an enormous sacrifice. How much love and devotion to your family does such a move require?

I spent the summer away from County, but she continued to work on her English. By the time I came back to start my surgical sub internship, she was able to speak and read English with ease. We started studying for the boards. It was a little early for me, but I studied right along with her. This in itself was a big benefit as I started my surgical rotation. Benton would direct me to text books to familiarize myself with the area of anatomy in preparation for a scheduled surgery. Bob would point things out, explain things with examples you just don't get in books. She was extremely bright, very articulate and willing to help in any way she could.

Although my intention was to help her, it came back to me tenfold. I was a much stronger student with a fuller, more complete understanding of the human body and the treatment of its various malfunctions. She passed her boards that fall and it wasn't long before she landed a position in a hospital in Milwaukee.

We've kept in touch over the years. She's married now, has two kids – a boy named John and a girl named Franciska. I like to tease her that she named her son after me, but I know she named him after her husband's father. She's a well respected and well published vascular surgeon who's developed a reputation for excellence.

Benton was my resident for all my third year. For the first half, I had him all to myself and I got very used to not having to share. When Deb Chen started her rotation under Benton in the second half of my third year, it annoyed me and I made no attempt to disguise my feelings. All of sudden, I had to compete for Dr. Benton's time. I had to compete for the go ahead to do procedures and I had to compete for the chance to get in the OR. I felt I was being short-changed. It was the grown up equivalent of a two year old having to share his toys. I didn't like the encroachment on my territory one bit.

To Deb's credit, she didn't let my attitude affect her own. She enjoyed the competitiveness and actually seemed to feed off of it. I found myself in one long, dramatic competition to outperform and outprocedure her. It was a strange competition though, as she was always helpful, good natured and enjoyable to be around. With both of her parents being surgeons and her mother being Chief of Surgery at another hospital, she was keenly aware of not only the political processes at work, but also the attributes and attitudes of surgeons and typical candidates for surgical residency. She offered me a lot of solid advice on how to get where I wanted to go with my career.

The best thing about Deb is that she is one of a very few select people in my life around whom I can completely be myself. I clearly remember the day when I realized I could be totally honest about who I was and that she'd just accept me that way without making any judgments or assumptions. After putting in nearly 20 hours the day before, I had to go to a charity event my grandmother was hosting. Directly from that event, I had to go back to the hospital for my next shift. I was so tired, no amount of coffee was going to perk me up. Not that I wanted to drink coffee at that point anyway. I was tired to the point of being nauseous. Deb asked "are you crazy? It doesn't do you or the patients any good for you to treat them when you're three quarters asleep. Why don't you go home and go to bed?" I was so tired, I couldn't come up with a lie and I just told her the truth.

She smiled and told me to go lay down in the on call room. I told her I couldn't, Benton would have my ass. She basically ordered me to go get some sleep. Tired as I was, I didn't argue much. I obediently went to the on call room, shut my eyes and woke up six hours later. Panicked, but feeling a lot better, I was ready to face the music with Benton. I went to go find him, and ran into Carol Hathaway who thanked me for suturing up a patient for her. Next, I ran into Mark Greene who praised my thorough history on 3 other patients. What was I doing? Handling patients as I slumbered away? As a med student, you live and breathe this stuff, but I didn't think I was capable of doing it in my sleep. It turned out Deb had juggled all her own work along with mine and kept everyone thinking I was pulling my weight.

She could have used the situation to her own advantage. Had it been reversed, I'm not sure I could have resisted the temptation to capitalize on her shortcoming. She took the high road though, kept my secret. I took her to dinner that night as a thank you. It turned out that she's from a wealthy family too. Her parents had parties where her attendance was mandatory no matter how much studying she had left to do. She understood the obligation. We talked a lot that night and found we had so much in common growing up. It was the first time I had ever had a peer to peer talk that was so open and honest. I realized that I around her, I didn't have to hide anything, I was free to be me.

The "free to be me" thing didn't stop our little competition. If anything, we both became more aggressive in our pursuit to outdo the other. I had twice upped her without giving her a chance to even out her procedure book with mine. I made sure to make her aware that I had done internal cardiac massage and then she came in mid-trauma where I was very obviously putting in a central line. The one-upmanship caused her to put in a central line unsupervised in a patient where she was just supposed to start an IV.

I felt responsible. The competition was stupid. There were enough procedures for both of us. I called her house, but got no answer. Dr. Swift wanted to talk to her and Benton ordered me to find her and bring her back. I checked the roof and the chapel at the hospital, but she hadn't fled to either place. I went to the school, and checked the medical and regular libraries, the study rooms, the labs. I couldn't find her anywhere.

I remembered her talking about her parents having a party that night, so I went to her house. I knew she'd be there. When I arrived, the party was already going on. Lots of guests all around, I worked my way through the crowd looking for her. Coming back into the foyer, I spotted her as she started her descent down the stairs. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, no makeup, her hair was down. She looked beautiful, but not appropriate to the party. It was obvious that the guide wire event was deeply troubling to her.

We walked into the kitchen, past all the chefs and waiters and sat down in the breakfast room to talk. I tried to convince her to come back, that it would blow over and she'd be right back on track. She didn't want to hear it. I think she thought she'd messed up beyond repair. It's that perfectionist in her that took over. I couldn't convince her. All I could do was hope that she would change her mind on her own and come back.

We talked for a long time that night. With both her parents being doctors, their expectations for her were so high, and she worked so hard to live up to them. Now, she was throwing it all away. I tried to explain to her that it was a good thing that her parents cared enough to set expectations, they cared about her achievements. They obviously love her very much. She should give them a chance to help her.

She tried to tell me that her parents insisted she do this on her own and that they wouldn't help, that she would have to find another career path. I suggested that she not close the door so quickly. She should give more thought into what she really wants. I had the feeling that medicine was as much in her blood as it was in mine. She was discouraged for the moment, but I couldn't let her use that to throw away nearly seven years of hard work.

By the time I left that night, she was in better spirits. We had been able to move on to lighter conversation and actually joined the party. Her father did not look particularly excited to see his daughter kiss the white guy on the cheek before leaving, but I enjoyed it. I knew she'd be alright.

The next day I had to go back and tell Dr. Benton and Dr. Swift that she wasn't going to be back this rotation, but that I hoped we would see her again. Dr. Swift remarked that it would be a shame if she quit medicine. It took not just understanding the principles of the procedure, but initiative and guts to do what she did, hallmarks of a great ER doctor. Not that he condoned med students doing such procedures unsupervised, of course.

I heeded the warning, but also took to heart that I needed to show initiative, I needed to take charge and control my own path. It would serve me well as I embarked on my mission to become a surgeon, and even more so, when I decided to switch back to emergency medicine.


	5. Surgical Precision, Season 2, 3

**Surgical Precision**

As my fourth year was drawing to a close, I anxiously awaited my match letter. More than anything, I wanted to match at County, to continue my study under Dr. Benton. The nervous anticipation was strong enough to manifest physical symptoms. I was literally vomiting in the toilet as my girlfriend, Harper, tried to ease my apprehension.

Later that day, I received my match letter. I was ecstatic to learn that not only did I match at County, but I was considered one of a select few highly desirable and sought after surgical candidates in the country. My head swelled with pride and I let my exuberance carry me away. While still on shift, I foolishly took Harper to a celebration lunch at one of the best hotels in Chicago. We ended up in a luxury suite, eating chocolate covered strawberries and drinking Dom Perignon as we enjoyed a luxurious bubble bath. Three hours later, I returned for my shift alcohol impaired.

Arriving in the ER, I found that Dr. Hicks had been looking for me. She wanted me scrubbing in on a surgery that was scheduled just minutes away. I had to tell her I was under the influence of celebratory champagne. To say she was pissed off would be an understatement. I was tersely informed that consuming alcohol while on shift was terms for expulsion. Damn, I was literally weeks away from graduating.

I stayed well past my shift that day so I could see her in her office and shamelessly begged for mercy. After a stern lecture on the need to strictly adhere to the code of conduct, she sentenced me to 4 straight weeks of night rotations in the ER, with no possibility of surgery whatsoever. Grateful for the second chance, I served my penance without complaint.

In a strange twist of the usual pattern, my parents actually made it to my graduation and even hosted a party in my honor at the The Drake. However, I was present at neither event. I was with a patient, a little girl I admitted through the ER who needed a liver transplant. Overnight, her condition worsened, her doctor bumped her up on the UNOS list again and sent her to the ICU. When I went up to check on her, I found she was left alone and frightened while her parents were out of the room talking with the doctor. I sat with her and we chatted about her treatment and when her parents still hadn't returned, we started to talk about all kinds of other things. I was just trying to take her mind off her condition and the fact that, for the moment, her parents were not with her. Calming the fears of this girl seemed like a more productive use of my time than showing up a party my parents were throwing; a party more for their friends than me.

My first shift as a surgical intern started on July 4, 1996 at 5:45am. I met the other surgical interns before breakfast with Dr. Benton. To my chagrin, one of the interns was Dale Edson. I met him a few months back. He knew Harper, my girlfriend at the time, and he knew her intimately. It was a sore spot with me. I'm a bit of the jealous type and immediately assessed him as an adversary. Also among the crowd was Dennis Gant, someone who I would become fast friends with.

Southside Hospital closed that fall and some excellent members of their staff came on board at County. Among them was Abby Keaton, a noteworthy pediatric surgeon. Pediatric Surgery being the most difficult specialty, Benton immediately applied for an elective under her direction. I was excited about it. I've found that working with children is very rewarding. When you are able to fix or heal them, there is so much satisfaction simply because their young lives hold so much promise for the future. You don't know, that little patient may one day grow up to find the cure for cancer, or solve world hunger, or achieve world peace.

When I met her for the first time, I remember thinking she was so beautiful with her long blonde hair, soft eyes and gentle face. Her voice was like music, enjoyable in my ear. I was immediately infatuated with her, but she was 10 years older than me, not to mention she was Benton's attending, so I tried my best to ignore those feelings and focus on the medicine. In style, she was the complete opposite of Benton. She didn't teach or preach, she nurtured knowledge and skill. The more we worked with her, the more I craved her.

One day, Dale and I were in the locker room when we got into a big difference of opinion regarding a patient. Swinging punches, we broke out into the hall in front of Abby. She broke up the fight and took me to her office to minister to my bloody nose. We talked as she patched me up. I kept calling her Dr. Keaton, trying my best to focus on the fact that she was my boss's boss. She kept insisting I call her Abby. She was so kind, gentle and tender in both conversation and deed, that I couldn't maintain my focus. I broke down and called her Abby. It seemed to be her cue, as she then kissed me, passionately. She got up and locked the door, turned around and looked at me.

I could see it in her eyes. She wanted me. She wanted something she knew I could give her. Something she hadn't had in a while. We made love right there in her office. She was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. She was magnificent, perfect, amazing. I fell in love with her that night. It was nothing I could admit to anyone, not even her. It's been my secret.

Life was wonderful for a season. Being a surgical intern isn't easy. Every third day, you're on for a very long 36 hours. But with Abby around, it didn't feel like 36 hours. My shifts passed quickly and even in my personal time, when I had to study and prepare for upcoming surgeries, she was there with me. I couldn't ever remember having so many happy moments as I did with Abby. She made me feel secure in myself, deserving of love and kindness. When she told me she was leaving for Pakistan, my heart fell out of my chest. I did not want her to go, but go she did.

On her last day at County we were cuddled up on the couch in her office, reading a book about Pakistan. I pleaded with her not to go. I tried to persuade her with a passionate kiss. At that moment, Dr. Benton barged in without so much as a knock. Busted. We hadn't realized the door wasn't locked. There are rules about this sort of thing, and we carelessly broke them. Now there would be hell to pay. My career could well have been over before it even got started. And her career, brilliant and talented as she was, could well be over too; it all hinged on what Benton would do next.

Fortunately, Benton more or less, took the high road and did not report our relationship to the board. Abby was able to continue to practice and teach pediatric surgery, a discipline in which she was truly gifted. I was able to continue my internship, but I resolved not to get entangled in this type of relationship again. I put my nose to the grindstone and headlong devoted myself to the practice of medicine.

It was that same day that I was paged to the ER along with Benton. A patient came in as a trauma. It was unclear whether it was an accident or a suicide attempt, but the man had been run over by an El Train. We feverishly worked to save him. One of the nurses paged Dr. Gant for help. A beeper went off in the trauma room. Our patient was Gant. We ramped up our efforts, going well beyond our limits to try and save him, but the effort was in vain. I heard the monitor flat line, the nurse declared asystole. Benton continued CPR and epi rounds for another 45 minutes before holding still. I looked up at him. Typical Benton, he would not allow himself to cry, but I could see the tears welled up in his eyes.

I pulled off my gloves and gown and threw them to the floor in anguish. I burst out the trauma room doors and went directly to the men's room. I went in a stall and I cried. Hard. Dennis Gant was my friend, my roommate, my co-intern. He was struggling and showing signs of depression, but I was so wrapped up in my own happy little world, that I didn't make the time for him I should have. I let him down. I was not the friend I should have been and he died. The guilt would haunt me for a very long time.

I began to see how fleeting life truly is. How precious it is. How important it is to focus your energy on those things that really matter. As my intern year progressed on, I began to see how my concern for patients and my attitude towards them were different from that of other surgeons. Butting heads with Dr. Anspaugh over my preference to find the best solution for my patients, even if it wasn't surgical, became routine. Dr. Hicks, who initially was very supportive of me, became disenchanted with the lengths I would go to make sure my patients had the best possible care. Benton would just shake his head. I think he knew it would eventually come to this, but hoped he was wrong. I was fighting a losing battle. They were all playing by a set of rules and a code of conduct that didn't make sense to me. I didn't get it, I couldn't play by it. I couldn't get along with my fellow interns, residents or attendings.

I found myself much more comfortable in the ER, where the mindset of the staff was much more in line with my own. I wanted to be more engaged with my patients than surgery allowed me to be. I began to think I made a mistake, that the ER was my place, not the OR. But I had already started down this road. Was there an exit ramp I could take? One that would lead to the ER?

I went to Dr. Anspaugh to see about switching back to emergency medicine. The conversation only served to piss him off more. He was short with me about patients needing surgical consults and was publicly terse with me when I was unavailable for rounds later that day. I met his frustration and upped the ante, shouting him down in the hall in front of everyone. It was such unprecedented action that it left him momentarily speechless. I thought, there goes my career to hell in hand basket. He was the Chief of Staff and I let him know in no uncertain terms that my priority was the patient I was working with at the moment, not him or his agenda. The incident was nothing short of professional suicide.

I agonized over the moment the rest of the day. I was pretty sure my remaining days at County could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Next year's match being over, I was pretty well sunk. I finally decided I had nothing to lose by making one last pass at Anspaugh. I waited for him in the parking lot and caught him as he was opening his car door. I made an impassioned plea not to be tossed out of medicine or forced to stay in the surgical program. I guess the cool night air allowed him to keep a level head and really hear what I had to say. He told me to see him in his office the next morning.

Bright and early the next day, I was in his office. He sat down with me and we had a long heart to heart talk. We agreed. I don't think like a surgeon. I don't act like a surgeon, I don't treat patients like a surgeon, but I did have great knowledge and skill that would well serve the patients that came through County's doors. Yes, I could resign my surgical residency and begin a new residency in emergency medicine. It would mean completely starting over with another intern year, but it was the opportunity to get back on the road I was meant to be on.


	6. Starting Over, Season 4

Starting Over

I was happy to be back in the ER. The opportunity to learn from Mark Greene was an opportunity to learn from the best. The chance to really work with patients and address their whole being was priceless. Sometimes the best medicine isn't the drugs we give the patient, or the surgery we perform, it's the attention to their fears and concerns about their medical treatment. Being back in the ER allowed me to practice medicine the way I felt I needed to, the way I felt I was best suited for.

What frustrated the hell out of me however, was having to run procedures by and take direction from Maggie Doyle. I liked Maggie a lot. She was great, a champion of the underdog, a fender of lost causes. Our styles, while different, were quite compatible. As peers we were pretty good friends, but now she was a year ahead of me. I had to allow her to "teach" me things that I had taught her the year before. It just didn't sit right with my ego. Humbling myself and graciously serving another intern year took no small effort on my part. I wasn't always successful at displaying a positive attitude, but I knew I was lucky to be exactly where I was.

My first med student provided an additional challenge for my resolve because he had no interest in the practice of medicine. Henry was fixated on the physiology of the mind. His ER rotation took an obvious backseat to his pet project, this brain study he was working on. Because he was often late or just plain missing from his shift, I got stuck in suture Siberia day after day. I watched as my fellow intern Anna, got to do the interesting stuff while I languished in the mundane. I called Maggie on it. I was sure she had a thing for Anna, not that I blamed her for it. I mean, who wouldn't? It just aggravated me that she seemed so willing to treat Anna to the more complex cases while I did little more than a 3rd year medical student.

Anna reminded me of Abby, whom I still missed. Like Abby, she had soft eyes, a gentle face, beautiful blonde hair and a kind, silky smooth voice. She was caring and compassionate, especially with children. I learned that she had completed her residency in pediatric medicine and then decided to do another residency in emergency medicine. Like me, she was starting over. When I considered the fact that she had already completed four years of residency and was now doing another intern year without complaint, well, it put things in perspective for me.

I had a hard time leveling with her about my family's wealth. It goes back to something instilled in me from birth; to not be showy about how much money the family has. Look and act like everyone else, you'll be treated like everyone else. Look and act like you've got more money than God and you invite nothing but hard feelings from those around you. I'd already been given a sizeable portion of animosity from the other doctors when the Carter family money was exposed. They were each looking at having to repay seventy, eighty, even a hundred thousand dollars in student loans and were clearly resentful that my education was paid for in full. It always made me uncomfortable to be treated like that, and I just couldn't take getting that attitude from Anna. I wanted her to see me as just an ordinary person.

She of course found out about my family's wealth before I felt it was time to tell her. It really pissed her off. She made the comment that I had gone "slumming" like it was entertainment for me to see how someone actually lives on an intern's pay. It hurt that she felt I wasn't solid enough of character to just want to be with her because I enjoyed her company. We spent a few days being upset and angry with each other. Dr. Greene grew tired of us as we bounced out of traumas to avoid working with each other. He made us sit down and talk it out. We weren't allowed to leave the lounge or work on any patients until we could work out our issues. I never before thought about it, but it would seem that no matter what your financial standing is, you will have hang-ups about money. Anna and I agreed to just accept each other's embarrassment of our individual economies. I was grateful to have the whole thing resolved. Anna was a wonderful friend and great counsel. She kept me honest and ethical. She kept my attitude in check.

One of my more interesting experiences that year, was when I got hauled out in the middle of a trauma and sent to jail because I stood up for my patients rights. That holding cell was populated with some fringe-of-society characters. The guys were pretty rough and did a good job of intimidating me. It's really a very different situation when people like this come into the ER. When they need medical attention, they're simply people needing my help, but these guys were perfectly healthy and perfectly capable of doing bodily injury. I was pretty nervous in there. I was still young enough to come across like a first class geek prime for a swirlie. I was sure someone was going to plant my face in that toilet in the center of the cell. I could feel all these eyes on me, sizing me up. I wanted out of there so bad, but I couldn't get anyone to listen to me.

Anna, rightfully concerned about what it'd be like for me in such a place, posted my bail and waited for me just outside the station. I came out and saw her standing there, the snow falling lightly, her warm breath visible in the cold night air. She was a lovely vision for my sore eyes to behold. Without thinking, I took her in my arms and kissed her. Not a friendly little thank you kiss, but a passionate, "I'm very happy to see you" kiss. It was intimate ground we hadn't covered before. We parted lips and looked at each other awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of the next move. It was definitely a moment of sexual tension, a moment which could have led somewhere if we allowed it. I was a bit shy of making the necessary move, and figured there would always be time later.

That Christmas, Gamma came to the hospital bearing gifts for the children. Normally, she'd bring Gampa with her when she did such things, but this time he made sure his alibi was airtight, forcing her to find a suitable replacement. The hapless draftee ended up being my cousin Chase. He had just been in the ER a few weeks back. I treated him for a spider bite.

Somewhere in her travels through the hospital, Gamma lost track of Chase and I went to find him. Remembering one of Gampa's old tricks, I went outside to check the car. Sure enough, he was there, having his own personal little party. Spider bite my ass, he'd been skin popping heroin. I couldn't believe how stupid I was. I deal with all kinds of addicts coming in for treatment and saw through all kinds of crazy stories, but got suckered when it was someone in my own family.

I went to see him at his apartment that night. I wanted him to understand the world of a junkie. I see so many of them at the hospital. Tripping out of their own minds, their bodies go to hell. Their weight drops dangerously low, their teeth rot out of their mouths, their hair thins and falls out in patches, they act aggressively, selfishly and are generally out of control. I didn't want that for my cousin. He had so much promise for a productive, fruitful life. To recklessly throw that all a way, it was something I couldn't let him do. I had to convince him to come clean. I left disappointed and unsuccessful, or so I thought.

Apparently, I got through to him enough for him to consider the consequences of his habit. He'd obviously tried to self wean off the drugs when he came to the ER asking for Compazine. The fact that he came in looking for a way to resolve the withdrawal jitters instead of seeking another fix, told me he wanted help, he wanted to detox. I tried to convince him to check into a center where he could get professional help, but he wouldn't go. Pride was still a major issue. I thought the only shot at getting him clean was to do the detox privately. Anna, having years of experience doing the detox dance, came over to help. It was a very long night, and I was grateful for her insight, assistance and company.

Over the next several weeks, I checked in with Chase every few days to make sure he was doing okay. He seemed more like the guy I used to know. I took it as an encouraging sign that everything was fine, but it was all an elaborate lie. I'm not sure if he was fooling himself, but he was definitely fooling me. I couldn't have been more shocked when he came into the ER as an OD.

Anna called me into the trauma. I saw him lying on the table completely gorked. My heart sank. For a moment I froze with fear and disbelief. Gathering hold of myself, I quickly went into action. We must have worked on him for 45 minutes as he kept cycling between VTAC and VFIB. Anna and the others tried to tell me he was brain dead, but I refused to accept that. I continued to order rounds of shock, compression and epi. We got his heart back with a rhythm, but his brain activity was slow and diffuse.

Because he was basically detoxing while in coma, we sent him up to the ICU. I was unable to reconcile my guilt over missing the signs that he had returned to heroin. It was because of my failure he now lay in this ambiguous state, mostly likely never to again be the Chase I knew. I sat there helpless at his bedside contemplating what I should have done. How did I manage to screw up so badly here? Me, of all people, should recognize someone still suffering from a drug problem. I failed my cousin. I failed my family. I failed to be a good doctor. I couldn't beat myself up enough. I felt so powerless and useless.

I was doing a pretty good job of being hard on myself, but my grandparents were doing an even better job of it. They were angry and they let me know in no uncertain terms. To a large degree, I think it was displaced anger. They were mad and upset with Chase, but because they couldn't direct those emotions at him in his condition, the full brunt went to me. I understood. It was kind of the same thing when Bobby died. You lose hold of someone you love, you take it out on someone who's still there. I knew not to take it too personally.

I knew I had to buck up and hold my ground. I had a more realistic view of what happened to Chase and why. I also had a better understanding of his chances for meaningful recovery. I knew I could make wise and sound decisions about his care, but Gamma challenged me every time there was a decision to be made. She had a tendency not to take my practice of medicine seriously. In her mind, I was not qualified to assess medical information about him and decide on a course of treatment. She insisted she knew better.

It all came to a head when Gamma stopped funding Carol's clinic. I went to see her. I knew it was really me she was pissed off with. Carol just had the misfortune of being in the direction where Gamma focused her anger. She didn't want to be mad at me. I was her favorite grandchild, but the situation with Chase was leaving her little choice. She knew she could make her point with me by cutting Carol's funding. She gave me another lecture on being the "disaffected youth" and that I needed to care about the family foundations. I live off the family trust fund, she told me. All I care about is the money, she said.

To say I was hurt by the comment, would be a gross understatement. I lived my life embarrassed by the family money. I tried my best to hide it from people. I didn't splurge on a spacious and expensive condo on the lakefront complete with maid service, I lived in a one bedroom apartment two El stops from the hospital. I drove jeep, not a luxury import. When I bought clothes for myself, I went to Macy's, not Neiman Marcus. How dare she say such a thing! I told her if that's the way she felt, she could keep her money.

On April 16, 1998 Gamma stopped the quarterly transfer of funds from the Carter family trust into my checking account. I had enough money to support my lifestyle as it was, until the end of the next month. After that, it was going to be a problem. Since I was still doing an unpaid internship, I started to take economy measures to make the money I did have go a little further. I began selling my furniture and other possessions to augment the dwindling money supply.

It was during this time Anna became really helpful. She definitely had learned how to live inexpensively. She suggested I put in an application to be an RA at the medical school. They'd give me a room, a meal ticket and a couple extra dollars in exchange for being available to the medical students residing in the dorm. I'd be eligible as soon as I became an R2, which was just a few weeks away.

The experience of having to struggle to make my ends meet, seemed to help further our relationship along. We were getting closer, more intimate as friends. I felt like the time was right to do something about the sparks I was sure she felt just as much as I did. I asked her if she wanted to go to the ER the banquet together. She said yes and I spent a few happy hours believing we would have an actual date. Then she found out she was a match for someone who needed bone marrow. She asked me to do the procedure. I was happy to do it for her, but I knew she wouldn't be able to make it to the banquet that night.

She surprised me though. She was there even though moving around was uncomfortable. Painkillers helped, but she was still very aware of the procedure performed earlier that day. I sat down at the table with her and we talked about the possibility of us. She told me that while it was over between her and her old boyfriend, she wasn't ready to move on, that it was better to just stay friends for now. It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but I accepted it for the moment. I figured she just needed a little more time and space before things could happen between us.

I figured wrong. A couple of weeks later, her old boyfriend showed up. County hired him to do a feasibility study for a Peds ER. The moment she saw him, I knew any chance I had with her was gone. As beautiful as she was, she looked even more amazing with him. She was still in love with him and it was obvious the feelings were mutual. He was tying up all her time, taking her to lunch, to dinner, going home with her at night. I was left out in the cold. Coincidently, his study was complete at the same time as her internship. He accepted a position managing a Peds ER in Philadelphia and offered her a position within the department. She left. She went back to Philadelphia with him and I've never heard from her again.

It broke my heart, but all I could do was pick up the pieces and try and fit them back together again. The medical school accepted my application and I got the RA position at the dorm. Just in time too, I had no money for next month's rent and I'd already sold most everything. I had my bed, my stereo, my books and about half of my CDs. Everything else was gone. I moved into the dorm quickly, determined to make it on my own. The Carter family money be damned.


	7. Finding My Own Way, Season 5

Finding My Own Way

Working as a resident advisor in the medical school dorm offered me some financial independence which felt really good. It was the first time I was really out on my own, making my own way with no ties to the Carter family money. I proved to myself that I could indeed live without it. It wasn't easy. I needed to be available to the students and being medical students, they kept crazy schedules. It was almost like being a surgical intern again with these long obnoxious hours and very little sleep.

I think Gamma hoped that the experience would send me groveling back begging to be allowed into her good graces again. When that didn't happen, she reported to my dad that I was living in horribly deplorable conditions. In her mind, the dorm was tantamount to a slum and resident advisor was a fancy term for janitor. Oh the horror it must have caused her to think of her grandson as a janitor in a slum! But for me, the experience was empowering, it was taking control of my life and the direction it was going. It helped me to grow and mature and see things in a very different way than I had before. Yeah, the lack of sleep did cause me to be grumpy at times, but it wasn't a forever kind of a situation. I just needed to hang out long enough to be financially sound on my own.

I figured I could get there faster if I actually got paid at the hospital. My intern year over, I was now an R2. There was more responsibility in the position and more independence as I managed patients' medical care. I felt a salary at that point was warranted and I approached Dr. Weaver about the possibility. To my surprise, she was amenable to the idea and promptly reinstated my compensation commensurate with my status as a second year resident. It felt great to be earning a salary and to eat something more substantial than ramen noodles.

Lucy Knight was the medical student assigned to me. Pretty and perky with these big, soft eyes, and she had that long beautiful blonde hair that's so hard for me to resist. Why the hell did they do this to me? Visions of Abby Keaton flashed into my brain. The fallout from that relationship came rushing to the front of my mind. I made an immediate resolution, come hell or high water, I was NOT going fall for this girl. She was a medical student and I was a resident. It was not allowed to happen. There were rules against it. I was going to make sure, nothing, NOTHING, was going to happen.

In my zeal to make sure nothing happened, I treated her horribly. I cut her sentences short, at times I didn't even listen to her. I kept my verbal exchanges with her as brief as possible. It was a frustrating place for me to be. I wanted to be a good teacher. I wanted to walk her through procedures, show her how to do things. She was smart, thorough, and very caring about her patients. These were qualities in her that reminded me of myself as a third year med student. It was damn difficult. The harder I worked to emotionally distance myself from her, the more she asserted qualities that I find very attractive in a woman. I found my only course of action was to counter with an equal amount irritation.

Because I wasn't handling my unwanted attraction to Lucy very well, I didn't want to stay and monitor a Halloween party the students were having in the dorm. I told Lucy to watch over things. It was stupid on my part. I knew there'd be alcohol. I knew everyone would be drinking, including her, but I left her in charge and headed to the library. Walking up to the dorm, I was greeted by flying, flaming furniture from above. Enough was enough. I went upstairs and broke the party up before heading to my room. A few of the kids remained, but they were quiet, so I thought all was fine. That is, until Lucy came franticly knocking at my door. Two of the kids OD'd and required a trip to the ER.

I blamed Lucy. She was the hapless target of my deflected inward anger. Ultimately though, the responsibility was mine. When the dean called me into his office, I couldn't blame her. I had to own up to the fact that I failed to do my job, I failed to properly supervise the students and ensure a safe environment for them. It was just frustrating to me that I had failed so miserably all because of these damn feelings I had for Lucy. Losing the RA job really didn't bother that much. I was actually relieved to be moving out of the dorm. It just irritated me that it could have been avoidable, if I wasn't so hell bent on not falling for her.

Moving out of the dorm created a challenge. I had to make living arrangements. I was earning a resident's pay, but that didn't amount to much. I couldn't afford a hotel while I looked for an apartment. Roxanne and I had recently started dating and even though we spent a lot of nights together, it was more of a casual thing. I didn't want to give her the idea that I had any serious or long term plans with her. Doug and Carol came through and saved the day. They offered me their guest bedroom until I could find an apartment. I took them up on it and stayed a few nights. Working through the apartment listings in the paper, Roxanne found an apartment that was convenient to the hospital and the right price for my pocketbook. It turned out to be Weaver's basement apartment, but that was fine with me. The next day, me, my books and my stereo moved in.

Not living in the same dorm as Lucy helped and I found there were times I could actually be civil to her. One of those times was when this little girl came in with some very rare minor antigens in her blood. She needed a blood match in order for us to do emergency surgery, but her father, who was a match, fled. That afternoon, Lucy and I each embarked on a manhunt for him. We ended up consolidating our search when we both ended up at the same spot at the same time to get information from the same person. As we traversed the town in pursuit of this man, we had time to talk about how we each felt about the other and the strained relationship we had. Despite my hostile attitude toward her, she remained good spirited. She was a great girl. She had a lot of compassion, a lot of heart.

Around 5 am we finally found the dad and brought him back to the hospital so we could transfuse his daughter, but too much time had passed. Dr. Benton had no option but to perform bloodless surgery around midnight. She survived, but her organs were shutting down. She was already in renal failure. She would definitely suffer a reduction in the quality of her life. How extensive that reduction would be, only time would tell.

Lucy didn't handle the news well. I found her up on the roof. You know, the place where you go to be alone, but hope someone will come find you and offer you comfort. I set my issues aside and offered her that comfort. We talked about how we do our best for patients and what happens from there, you just have to accept. I put my arm around her and she leaned her head into my chest. We sat there silent and motionless in the cold night air for a good while. It was in those quiet moments, I realized she knew that my outward emotions were not how I really felt. She saw through my façade. The sun was just below the horizon as I kissed her on the top of her head, getting a whiff of her hair that smelled vaguely like the beach in summer. I told her I would take her to breakfast. We went downstairs to the cafeteria and had bad food and pleasant conversation.

Seeing her sheer will and unstoppable resolve trying to help that little girl, changed my attitude. She only had a few weeks left on her ER rotation anyway, so I decided not to fight what I was feeling. I didn't even try to mask it. I really liked Lucy. I enjoyed her company. I enjoyed teaching and working with her. I just wanted to be around her. She was bright and cheerful and always worked to make the best of any situation. The rest of her ER rotation went smoothly.

Just before her surgical rotation started, Dale Edson came down to the ER to introduce himself. It was more like scoping her out. I found myself annoyed and jealous. Of course he turned out to be her resident for her surgical rotation. Dale always had a completely irritating way of getting in between me and my girl. I hated him.

By the middle of February, Lucy was well into her surgical rotation. Occasionally, we still worked together on patients. A woman came in that had been kicked in the face while working out. Lucy and I did the initial work-up on her and then I left to see other patients. About an hour passed and no progress had been noted on the board, so I went to go check on her. I found her in the patient's room receiving a complimentary kick boxing lesson. Actually, I didn't make it into the room. She was unaware of my presence when she kicked back, sending a forceful blow to my chest. Unprepared for such an event, I got the wind knocked out of me and fell backward through the doorway and over a patient in a wheelchair. Concerned that she may have broken a rib or two, Lucy ordered chest film.

We were alone in Exam 6 reviewing the X-Rays. I don't know if it was the jealousy thing over Dale, or because Roxanne and I had a major argument about Lucy on Valentine's Day, it just happened. She was caring for a cut on my forehead and placed one hand on my chest as she cleaned the cut. I feigned pain as she dabbed at it giving her permission to become quite playful. She was adorably cute as she kissed my forehead. She pulled back and I could see it in her eyes. I knew what she wanted to do. I also knew it was wrong. I tried to clear my head and stop her, but I wanted her.

I felt her lips pressed to mine. I found myself putting my arms around her and kissing back. Before I knew it, we were on the floor. The satisfaction of laying on top of her…it definitely wasn't going to take much. I thought about how Roxanne, my girlfriend, doesn't even excite me like that. I wanted her. I wanted her bad. My next thought was about Abby. I clearly remembered how concerned she was when Benton discovered what kind of relationship we really had. That thought triumphed over the physical urge I felt and I was able to put the brakes on. It was a lucky thing too, because no sooner did we stand up then Chuny was knocking at the door asking if everything was alright.

Forget the speed of sound, the hospital rumor mill operates at the speed of light. Everyone I came in contact with heard about something hot in Exam 6 between me and Lucy. I spent the rest of the day denying that anything happened. We kissed, sure. She had me revved up and ready to go, yes. Okay, I now had more of a problem dealing with my feelings about her, but that was just internal to me. I was not going to act on them so that didn't count.

Lucy followed up her surgical rotation with one in Psych, giving me room to deal with my thoughts about that day in Exam 6. I'd be with Roxanne and find myself wanting to pretend she was Lucy. If I wasn't pretending she was Lucy, I was talking to her about Lucy. It seemed like a cruel thing to do to her. I didn't want to hurt her and I couldn't fess up to her about my feelings, so I started trying to distance myself from her, seeing her less often, making excuses to not spend the night, that sort of thing.

Roxanne didn't seem to be taking the hint and by May I realized the decent thing to do was to break up with her. She came to the hospital and being her typical self, she was trying to sell insurance to a patient. This particular patient had bottles of pheromones that she sold. Earlier, Lucy had obviously tried out one of them as she kept waving her wrist under my nose. I've got to admit, it did stir up a sexual tension toward her that I worked hard to ignore. The internal battle with my preference for Lucy, whom I couldn't have, over Roxanne, whom I had, but no longer wanted, was in full swing. I saw Roxanne and became agitated enough to do what I had to do. I pulled her to the side, we had an exchange of words and permanently parted company.

When our shift was over, Lucy and I went up to the rooftop to reflect on our day and discuss our care and treatment of some of our more interesting patients, including the pheromone lady. Lucy was very perceptive and analyzed our individual perspectives on love and relationships. We never talked about my home life or my childhood, yet she was able to accurately assess that my parents lived like childless jet setters making marriage a complete mystery to me. She would have been one hell of a great psychiatrist. If the timing had been different, if she wasn't my med student…I wondered what could have been, what might even still be.


	8. Elaine Nichols, Early Season 6

**Elaine Nichols**

Of all the ERs in all Chicago, she rolled into mine. Gorgeous blonde hair, huge sky blue eyes, with a soft, silky, sensual voice, she was loveliness personified and no less beautiful than the last time I saw her. She was my cousin's wife. Actually, as I was soon to find out, she was my cousin's ex-wife. She was in a motor vehicle accident, and although she didn't suffer any injury that warranted it, she came by ambulance. On examination, I found her only damage to be a minor injury to her pinky finger.

As luck would have it, there was a Carter Family Foundation charity event that night. I didn't attend, but I met her on the steps of the opera hall afterward. I asked her if she wanted to go out for a drink or something. As a very sexual creature, she preferred the "something". We went back to her place and engaged in a very hot, very robust, very lusty romantic encounter.

For the next two weeks, we saw each other on a nightly basis, continuing our nocturnal activity with heat and passion. It was difficult to keep my mind focused at work, but it was a welcome relief. I tried so hard for so long to not be distracted by Lucy. Now here was Elaine and she was keeping my attention without effort. I felt free and that was a good feeling, but it wasn't meant to last.

In the course of treating a patient, I went upstairs to personally get her films. I was speaking with the desk clerk when I noticed an open doorway. Through the doorway, I saw her in a hospital gown. I wondered what she was doing there. I saw Elizabeth Corday walk into the room and shut the curtain, removing Elaine from my view. I knew something was wrong. Nobody sees a surgeon because they're healthy. Concerned, but lacking the authority to find anything out at the moment, I returned to the ER.

When Elizabeth came down to the ER later that day, I asked her about Elaine, masking my intentions as a matter of medical follow through. "She was my patient in the ER" I told her, "did I miss anything?" She informed me that she was simply seeking a second opinion about her breast cancer. The news hit me like a load of bricks falling on my head. I was stunned. I made love to this woman. How did I not notice a lump in her breast big enough to warrant removal of that breast? I thought about what it must have been like for her. She was so overtly sexual and now she was going to lose a breast. How does a woman like her deal with that kind of a loss?

I met her at her apartment that night. Laying in bed with this beautiful woman, I kept wondering what must be going through her head. She wasn't saying anything about her cancer. Did she think I wouldn't be here after the surgery, or that no one ever would? Did she think she would be undesirable? Unsexy? Unbeautiful? Unlovable? She rolled on top of me and started to kiss me in her sensual way. Normally I would respond with an equal amount of passion, but not this time. She must have sensed the thoughts racing through my mind. She stopped and softly whispered "you know".

I hesitated for a moment. I didn't want to upset her. I wanted to help her through the traumatic experience. I wanted to assure her and be there for her. I wanted her to know that nothing between us needed to change. I really didn't know how to voice an answer. I simply said "yes". She lifted her chest up and off me, gathering her arms over her breasts. I ran my hands along her thighs trying to be comforting. She moved off of me and sat at the edge of the bed, refusing to look at me. It was as if she now found our time together somehow frightening. She put on her robe and rose from the bed. She told me that I should leave as she walked toward the bathroom. All that would escape my mouth was her name. "Elaine" I called to her, but she didn't turn around. I watched as she disappeared from my sight.

I got dressed and left. Driving back to my place, I kept going over it all in my mind. I needed to be there for her. I needed to help her. I needed to be reassuring to her. I needed to make her see that all I wanted to do was be there for her through her surgery and afterward. I wasn't the kind of guy that would leave her over something like this.

A week later, she was back at County waiting for an appointment. I saw her in the waiting area. She looked beautiful, but nervous. I was a little nervous myself. I apprehensively walked up to her and started the awkward conversation we needed to have. I told her I didn't want her to have the wrong opinion of me, that I wasn't in it for the sex. She told me she was. The words stung. It started because of the strong physical attraction I felt for her, but now that we were involved, it was more than that. At least it was for me. She said she didn't need me to feel sorry for her or tender or anything else, she just needed me to go away.

What kind of a man would I be if I went away? What kind of a shallow person leaves a woman when she loses her breast? I thought about her beauty, her elegance, her grace, all attributes that would be unaffected by the surgery. She would still be an alluring woman, desirable to any man. It took me a while to figure it out. This wasn't about how I saw her, or how any man saw her for that matter. This was about how she saw herself.

Her self image was that of a sensual woman, provocative, sexually stimulating, able to rouse a man to deep passion and pleasure. I began to realize what her real fear was: that when they cut her breast, they would be cutting the essence of who she believed herself to be. How frightening. I couldn't go away. I understood her reaction to be a cry for help, help that I wanted to provide. I would stay and I would make sure she knows that the surgery only removes a diseased part of her body, but her sensual allure could not be removed by any surgery. That was hers to keep.

I gave her some time, space and privacy to deal with her emotions as she needed to, as she asked me to. But I didn't walk out of her life. I wouldn't give up on her. I went up to surgical recovery after her surgery. I stood there, looking at her through the window, wondering how much time she would need on her own before she'd allow me back into her life. Kit saw me and told me I could go in to see her, but I knew she didn't need or want me there at that moment.

I convinced Elizabeth to clue me into when Elaine would be coming back for her suture removal. I hadn't been able to get in touch with her. I wanted to test the waters, see if she was ready to talk. I still wanted her to know I was in this relationship because I cared, not just because I got laid. I walked up to the waiting area for the pre and post surgery suites. She looked very uncomfortable when I sat down next to her, but at least she was willing to talk to me. She told me her tests were clear, which was really good news. They got it all and she wouldn't need to follow up with chemo. It was a huge relief for her I'm sure, but there was still a lot for her to be concerned about. I tried to lighten up the conversation, told her we could go out to dinner and not talk about her surgery or my residency. I figured we could both use a momentary diversion from medicine. I got her to laugh and even admit she would be free that evening.

I went by her apartment that evening, but she wasn't there. I tried calling her several times, but talked only to her voice mail. After several days of messages, she finally called back and agreed to meet me at Doc Magoo's. We sat in a booth and talked about our relationship. I wanted it to continue, but the words she kept using sounded like goodbye. She kissed me on the top of the head. Her touch made my heart stop. I watched her walk away and thought I would never see her again. I would never have the chance to be with her again, to let her know what a beautiful, vibrant, sexy woman she still was.

I decided to go to her apartment that night anyway. She answered the door in a fluffy white robe under which I knew there was nothing but skin. I asked her if I could come in. She looked nervous and didn't answer, but she also didn't shut the door. I leaned in and kissed her full on the lips, she kissed me back for a brief moment and then walked a few steps away, not wanting to face me. She wasn't throwing me out. I knew she wanted me there, but she was afraid. This was it, the moment I could show her she was every bit the woman she wanted to be. This was the moment I could show her the surgery removed nothing but the cancer. I shut the door and walked over to her. Standing behind her, I put my hands on her waist. In her ear, I whispered "if you want me to leave, just say so." She didn't object, so I kissed her on the neck softly.

"I don't want your sympathy" she told me. It wasn't sympathy I was feeling. I pulled at the lapel of her robe, kissing her neck and moving down to her shoulder.

"I know" I said as I kept kissing her warm, soft skin. She drew loud, heavy breaths in apprehensive anticipation of what was coming next. Finally turning to face me, I saw both the fear and the desire in her irresistibly blue eyes. I looked down and untied her robe. She became panicked and raised her hands up to cover her missing breast. I looked reassuringly into her eyes, and as tenderly and as gently as I could, I took her hands in mine and moved them away slowly. She kept her gaze focused on my eyes. My eyes would tell her the story she needed to know. I leaned in and softly kissed her, letting her know the passion that was within me. She kissed me back with an equal amount of passion, wrapping her arms around me. I slipped her robe off, letting it fall to the floor. Kissing with great passion and heat, I removed my suit coat as she ripped my shirt sending buttons popping in all directions.

We spent the night making love like we'd never done it before. In the morning, I kissed her goodbye, knowing that I'd never see her that way again. Not because I didn't want to. I'd of been happy to continue our relationship, but she was ready to move on.


	9. Welcome Back, Deb, Mid Season 6

**Welcome Back, Deb**

I remember wrestling a patient with psych issues to the ground. Security came and got the patient off me and back into bed. I was still on the floor when a great set of legs appeared before me. I heard a familiar voice call my name. I looked up and there she was, my med school nemesis, my rival, my friend, my Deb. At first, I wasn't sure how I felt about her being back. I remembered her as being overly ambitious, dedicated to over achieving and competitive to a fault, but I also remember her being quite knowledgeable, eager to please, willing to share and helpful in so many ways.

Almost as if the nearly five years had not passed, we were back into our old familiar routine. I was handling patients as I gave her the orientation tour. She jumped right in trying to beat me to the diagnosis and explaining procedures to patients. One of the patients we were working on had an infection on his knee. We drained it and sent a sample to the lab for analysis. She got the lab report back and found me in the middle of lunch. Like old times, she helped herself to half my grapes as we conferred. I didn't mind sharing my grapes with her, but I did mind when she found a backhanded way to inform the guy's wife about his gonorrhea.

Later, I went out to the roach coach to augment my food supply. Dave was out there trying to start Weaver's car. I stopped to talk to him. He seemed quite interested in Deb, asking all kinds of questions about her. I knew he was a little immature and entirely too pale for her taste, but I couldn't pass up the chance to get back at her. Perfect, I thought, and I encouraged him to ask her out. Was it childish and stupid? Yes, but I would enjoy watching her squirm a bit.

I soon regretted doing it. He started making his move on her as soon as he walked back into the building. It made me oddly uncomfortable, it bordered on jealousy. Ridiculous, right? I knew he wasn't going to get anywhere. Even if he did, why should it matter to me? Deb and I were friends, nothing more than that. So why did it bother me? On our way out the door that first evening, Dave came up and yet again, hit on her. She deflected the shot with ease and grace, but I gave her a playful bump and asked her if she needed a warning about him. She laughed. She was perfectly capable of handling him.

The next couple of weeks definitely had their highs and lows as we worked to overcome past issues and promote the positive qualities of our relationship. Sometimes we worked well together and at other times, we were at odds with one another. We each tried to outdo each other at practical jokes as payback for one-upmanship in patient care.

Things got tense between us when she paged me with a trauma code. When I received the page, I happened to be in a portable toilet out in the ambulance bay due to a water shut off in the hospital. Running into the ER, I slipped on the floor that was wet with tracked in snow. Concerned that I hurt myself, she came running to help me up and make sure I was okay. It was time to have an honest talk about the way things needed to work. At that moment, we heard a crash. A guy got pinned between a car and a water truck just outside the ER. It was a matter of life and death that we set our hostilities aside and work together to save the patient. We did talk afterward. We cleared the air, apologized and it was never a problem between us again.

That night, we celebrated our success in overcoming the competitive thing by going out to dinner. We talked for hours. She told me all about reapplying to medical school in New York, the frustration of playing catch-up, the relationship she had with another resident and the heartbreak of discovering he was married after they'd been dating for over a year. To add insult to injury, the hospital closed due to lack of funding. Residencies were transferred to a different hospital, but it happened to be the one where the guy's wife worked. She didn't want to be around either one of them, so she was left on her own to find another spot somewhere. That's when her parents stepped in, brought her back to Chicago and pulled strings to get her in at County.

I shared with her the struggles of my internship in surgery, my frustrations when I switched back to emergency medicine and having to do another internship. We talked about my long string of various kinds of relationships: Harper, Abby, Anna, Roxanne, Lucy and Elaine. She was quick to note that of all the significant women in my life, she was the lone unblonde. I told her it by no means meant that she was left out standing in the cold, unloved. She giggled and said outstanding worked for her. The comment made me laugh.

I realized how much I missed talking to her. Long after we finished eating, we sat there drinking wine and talking. It was great to feel relaxed and just enjoy engaging conversation. Neither of us had anything to prove or hide. We were just two people, being our total honest selves, accepting each other for exactly who we each were and taking pleasure in just spending some quality time together.

Thus we began our venture onto a new plateau in our relationship. Competitiveness was replaced by a genuine desire to support each other in whatever circumstances came our way. Believe me, the challenges came and we were there for each other. She's been a constant in my life through some pretty tough stuff.

People look at us and wonder. To the outside viewer, I can see where it could be difficult to tell what kind of relationship we have exactly. Have we always been just friends? Have we ever been more than that? It can be hard to tell sometimes. We've been known to flirt with each other. We've been known to be quite touchy-feely. We each have some pretty intimate knowledge of each other that we'll never share with anyone else, but it's not sexual. It never has. For the record, our relationship has never been a romantic one, but it's been based on love, trust and respect for a long time now.


	10. Stabbed, Mid Season 6

**Stabbed**

Paul Sobricki, the name still sends shivers down my spine. The man came in complaining of a bad headache, nausea and photophobia. Lucy worked him up and presented to me. I should have gone in to check him out, but I didn't. At the time, I felt I needed to give my attention to the new med student, Abby Lockhart, who was working with an elderly woman that had specifically asked for me.

Lucy was bright and well on her way to being able to handle patients with minimal supervision. She was in her fourth year, literally just three months away from graduation. I had complete confidence she could handle the textbook case on her own. As typical, she perceived my confidence in her as disinterest and became short with me. I hated when that happened because that attitude was always contagious. I made a mental note to be mindful of my own disposition.

I went with Abby. I spent just a few minutes with her and her patient. Coming back into the hall, Dr. Greene stopped and asked me if I was following Lucy's patient. I told him I was. He instructed me that if I was going to supervise, I needed to do it more closely. That's never good to hear. I hurried into the exam room to find that the patient was altered. It had only been about 10 minutes since she presented to me, so this happened pretty quickly. I knew I needed to stay on top of the case. I told her what labs to order and gave Malik instruction what on drugs to push before leaving to get an LP kit.

When I returned, Malik said the Ativan put him right out. Given his altered state, I should have checked the patient to make sure, but I didn't. Lucy started the tap. As soon as she inserted the needle, the patient roused from sedation and reacted violently. He shook his body forcefully and begged us to stop. Lucy was apprehensive about continuing the procedure. I should have listened to her, but I told her to keep going. She cautiously proceeded. I was proud of the job she did. Despite the fact that it was a traumatic tap, she got clear fluid. I told her she did a good job and that I would be back.

I got a little distracted and soon found Dr. Greene breaking up a fight in the hall. It was Lucy's patient arguing with another man. Again Mark came down on me about not monitoring Lucy closely enough. I went into the exam room and asked her to step out. In the hall, I was short with her. I didn't mean to be, but I was getting tired of the dance we seemed to be doing.

She returned my attitude as she informed me that he met DSM4 criteria for schizophrenia. I asked her if she requested a psych a consult. She said she was waiting to present to me. I told her to page them, do whatever she needed to do to get them down and hand him off. I was anxious for her to get rid of the guy. Once she handed him off, she could get back to medical patients. Things would settle down and we could both get rid of our ill attitudes. As I walked away, I heard her slam open the exam door. I had to smile. Only Lucy can slam a door open, I thought.

Hours had passed and I noticed the patient was still on the board. I went to the exam room to find Lucy. I tried hard to be even tempered and not have any kind of attitude when I asked her why the guy was still in the ER. I think at that point, she was annoyed with psych. She had already called twice trying to get them down. Apparently they were backed up. I knew I had to get her out of there and seeing other patients. I snapped at her "Listen, I don't want to be on your case, but you've got to pick up some more patients." She told me she found the guy in the lounge and was getting him back into bed. She had the chart for the leg lac and would get to him next. "Good! Let Malik stay with this guy" I barked. I wanted her to move on to other patients. As I walked away, she was clearly frustrated. She yelled "Just forget it Carter!" and again slammed open the door.

That conversation is burned into my memory. The harsh way we both spoke to each other still rings in my ears. I carry that conversation with me always. The last words I heard her speak to me, were spoken in anger. The last thing she heard in her life, were the hostile words I hurled at her. I would do anything to take it all back.

The Valentine's Day party was in full swing at the front desk, the music was blaring. I looked at the board and saw Lucy still had not sutured the leg lac. I looked at my watch and noticed the psych case was now unforgivably old. I turned to Lily who was standing beside me and asked what was going on. She said Lucy was still waiting on the psych hold and they were in Curtain 3.

I went down the hall to Curtain 3. The room appeared to be empty and the lights were off, which was strange. I noticed a Valentine's Day card on the floor. I picked it up and read it in the dim light. It was from Yosh to Lucy. The sentiment read "For a friend that's everything beautiful, a wish for everything that's wonderful." It made me smile. It was perfect for her.

All of a sudden, I felt a deep, sharply pulsating pain as he jabbed the eight inch knife into my lower back and yanked it out with a twist. I felt a warm gush, and the wet of my shirt. I reached back with my hand to where the waves of excruciating pain were coming from. I felt warm liquid. Not comprehending it was my own blood, I brought my soaked and dripping hand in front of my face and stared at it. The throbbing burned more deeply with each breath and I found it difficult to remain upright. I started to fall forward, but momentarily caught myself on a bedside tray. I mustered enough breath to call for help, but the cost was searing pain. Unable to lean against the tray any longer, I went crashing to the floor. I rolled in total agony as my nerves registered the limits of endurable pain. I tried to lift myself up, get help, but the throbbing was too great. I would remain prostrate on the floor.

I looked to see if there was a phone cord or a reachable call button. That's when I saw her. Across from me, on the other side of the bed, Lucy was lying on the floor in a pool or her own blood. She was conscious, her eyes were open, but she lay there in silence. She was in shock and I was powerless do anything about it. I called to her and I think she wanted to respond, but her breathing became more labored as she tried to get enough breath to speak. I saw her eyes close. She lost consciousness. I laid on the cold hard floor wondering if that was her last moment on earth, wondering if that was my fate as well.

I knew I needed to stay alert. I tried to breathe through the pain, but breaths only intensified it. I was bleeding out, like Lucy I would lose consciousness. I tried one last time to muster enough strength and breath to call out for help, but I couldn't. My world was going black.

I remember coming to and finding myself looking up at the ceiling, not sure of where I was or what I was doing there. I heard Deb's voice. I asked what happened. She told me I was stabbed. The way she spoke, I knew my condition was critical. The intense pain I felt was at the threshold of losing consciousness, so I tried to stay focused on her voice. Ever the doctor, I knew it was better to stay awake and alert as they worked to stabilize me.

I remember looking over into the other room and seeing Lucy on the table. She wasn't moving at all. Her skin color was ashen. I could tell she was losing blood faster than they could infuse her. I was glad to see Peter was working on her. If anyone was capable of saving her, it was him. It was the last time I saw her. The image of Lucy lying on the table motionless, her hair tossled and blood streaked, with a flurry of activity around her, has stayed with me all these years.

The first person I saw after I came out of surgery was Peter Benton. He was a welcome sight. I couldn't have had a better surgeon or one I trusted more than him. As he performed his post-op tests, I asked about Lucy. I had this really awful feeling she was gone and I wanted in the worst way to know that I was wrong. He evaded the question and kept running through his checks. His refusal to answer my question was an answer in itself.

I turned my face away and silently pondered my loss. Lucy meant more to me that I was ever able to tell her. Now she was gone and I'd never have the chance. I should have seized the moment when it was there for the taking instead of being so concerned about the rules. Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got until it's gone? Overcome with grief and unable to bear the burden of guilt, I broke down and cried.

Because of necessary follow-up procedures and physical therapy, I remained a patient at County for over four weeks. Everyone I knew at the hospital found time to pop in for a minute or two and the people I worked closely with, would stop in any time they had a shift. Gamma came to see me a couple of times, even brought Gampa once. Deb was the only person that visited daily, whether or not she had a shift.

Her visits meant a lot to me. She did her best to cheer me up and keep me informed. She did my charting and follow ups, as well as Lucy's. She took care of my rent, mail and bills; the mundane stuff of life that goes on even when you're in a hospital. She encouraged me to move back into the house. It would be better to not be alone, she insisted. I wasn't ready to go crawling back to Gamma. Even though my rented little townhouse was tiny by anyone's standards, it was affordable on my resident's pay. It allowed me to maintain my financial independence, something that was still important to me.

Nearly three weeks after I was stabbed, my parents came to see me in the hospital. They'd been gone for so much of my life, I really wasn't up for their pity and I damn sure didn't want to have to explain my relationship with Lucy and why this whole tragic thing was my fault . Instead, I told them some of the same things I told Lucy's mother a few days earlier. It happened really fast, I didn't really know what was happening, I didn't really feel any pain, the surgery went well, I'm healing fine. It was just easier that way, less questions. The next day, my Dad came to see me without my Mom and we talked a bit more candidly, but it was still a long way from being honest about what happened and how I was actually feeling. A few days later, having dutifully checked on their son, they were back to their jet set life.

When I was finally discharged, Deb drove me home and helped me get settled. On arrival, I found that she had cleaned out my refrigerator and made sure it was stocked with fresh milk and fruit. She brought me dinner for a couple of weeks. She said there wasn't room enough for both me and my crutches in that kitchen and she didn't want me tripping over myself trying to cook in there. It was tiny and she was a better cook than me, so I was happy to accept the meals. I did appreciate the company since I couldn't go back to work yet and it was nice to have someone who cared enough to do all that for me.


	11. Painful Memories, Mid Season 6

**Painful Memories**

Six weeks after the stabbing, I went back to work. I was told not to push it. I was told it was too early. Rest, they told me. Allow yourself time to heal, they said. I thought, what the hell do they know? Being at home, being alone with my thoughts, my memories and feelings tortured my soul. I needed the distraction work would provide.

Deb wanted me to give myself more time to heal. She even warned me that she would stop bringing me those wonderful dinners if she found me back at work. Still, she was my biggest cheerleader when she saw me that morning at the front desk signing in for my shift. Concerned that it might be too much for me to handle at that point, she offered her assistance if I needed it. I told her I'd be okay and hobbled my way into the lounge.

My first challenge was stowing my things in my locker. As I fumbled with the combination, my crutches crashed to the floor, followed by my shoulder bag. I bent down to reach for them. Shooting pains radiated from my lower back down into both my legs. I was instantly transported back to Curtain 3 on Valentine's Day. In vivid detail, I remembered reaching down for the card, reading it and suddenly feeling the deep burning pains as a knife was thrust into my back.

I took a breath to summon my strength and resolve. I hoisted myself up using my crutch. I regained my balance and opened my locker. Staring at the mirror inside, I could see the combination of the memories racing through my mind and the sharp throbbing pain were enough to put me in a sweat. The agony I was in clearly registered on my face. I began to think maybe they're right, it is too soon. But even if they were right, I didn't want to go home. I just needed a little extra pain medicine and it would be fine.

Looking back, I can say unequivocally, crutches in traumas are a bad idea. I'd watched Weaver do it for years. She made it look easy. I thought I could do it too, but the crutches slowed me down and got in everyone's way including my own. I was soon relegated to med student level tasks in critical traumas. My ego took a decided hit. I began to doubt my wisdom in returning to work so early, but I couldn't stand the thought of being home alone. I was terrible company for myself. I still felt being at work was preferable to being alone.

Towards the end of that first shift, Weaver came to talk to me. She noticed my inability to keep pace in trauma. She seemed genuinely concerned about my well being. She asked about my support system. My support system was pretty much just Deb. I couldn't tell her my parents were off sailing in the Mediterranean or that Gamma came to see me a couple of times while I was a patient in the hospital, but I hadn't seen her since. I vaguely nodded my head at the question and told her I was fine.

I got up and headed to my locker. Deb was already in the lounge. She asked me how my shift went. I told her it had been a very long, very hard first day back, but I did it and tomorrow would be better. She looked up at me dubiously. "It will" I said, "it will." She nodded her head and turned her attention to her locker contents. Knowing she wasn't going to bring me dinner that night, I asked her what she planned to do. She replied that she was going to check on a patient she admitted to medicine. The tone of her voice suggested it was not going to be a doctorly visit. I teased her saying "You're just a sucker for a guy in the hospital, aren't you?" She laughed and asked what I planned to do that night.

I was honest with her and told her I didn't know, I really didn't want to go home and be alone. She suggested I go see Gamma, that she would welcome a visit from me. "She wants to see you John, but she's not going to force herself on you. You've got to make a move here."

"Have you talked to Gamma" I asked.

Deb nodded. "After she visited you upstairs, she came down to the ER and asked for me. We talked. She's very concerned about you John. Go see her." She put her hand on my arm and gently stroked it as she spoke. I nodded and she gave me an encouraging smile.

Dave Malucci burst through the door. He missed our conversation but noticed our nonverbal interaction. Deb softly told me goodnight as she squeezed my hand. She turned to leave and casually bid Dave goodnight.

Dave and I both watched her exit, although for entirely different reasons. "She told me she was going upstairs to see Addison's guy" he said.

"I know, she told me" I replied.

"The girl is breaking hearts all over town, eh Carter?"

I shook my head and said "Goodnight Dave" and left. The nature of my relationship with Deb was beyond his understanding and I wasn't going to try and explain it.

It was late when I arrived, but Gamma invited me into the kitchen and heated up some leftover soup for me. We started to talk. Like so many other people, she expressed concern over my going back to work so soon. At first I was hesitant to talk about it, but she was my Gamma, the woman who raised me. Of anyone in my family, she knew me the best and we had the closest bond.

I confided in her. I told her it was actually a lot tougher than I thought it would be and I wondered if I'd even be able to make it through the day, that I was actually afraid that I couldn't handle working in the place where I was stabbed almost to death, where Lucy was stabbed to death. Gamma was always such an encouragement to me. She reminded me that I did make it through the day. It was a triumph for me, not a defeat.

It felt really good to be in her company like that. It was like old times. She recognized it too. She asked me if I would like to come back to the house and stay where I could be around the people that love me. I knew she meant herself. I also knew I didn't want to be alone. I smiled and told her I'd like that very much.


	12. Out of Order, Late Season 6

**Out of Order**

I went back to work too soon. It made my recovery slower and more painful than it needed to be. But what troubled me more, was walking by Curtain 3 and treating patients there. I had to mentally prepare myself before entering that room. Doing an LP, was damn near impossible. I would hear the voices of Lucy, the patient and myself during that fateful tap on Valentine's Day. Any procedure requiring a scalpel would bring back physically painful memories of the attack. I couldn't escape it. The room was a daily fact of my job.

As the days passed, my dread of entering that room intensified. I tried to talk to Dr. Deraad, hoping he would prescribe something that would make the memories, voices and fears go away. But the fix would not be that easy or come that quick. I resorted to treating myself. I could cope through medicinal means, but since I couldn't prescribe medicine for myself, I'd have to be a bit creative.

I began to look for ways to augment my prescribed medicine. It was easy enough to inconspicuously obtain unused doses of narcotics in traumas. Fentanyl is a powerful pain reliever similar to morphine, but about 100 times more potent. It's fast acting and relieves pain quickly for a short time. We typically use it when traumas require major invasive procedures and to make end stage cancer patients comfortable. Like any other opiate based drug, it offers a sense of relaxation upon entering the system. Perfect, I thought. That's just what I needed.

Fentanyl would get me thru my shifts, but nights were still a major problem. There was no respite from my dreams. In my dreams, I was haunted by the memories from that Valentine's Day. I was tormented by my feelings for Lucy. The guilt and remorse would follow in turn. I would wake up in these cold sweats of fear and panic and dread. I'd end up lying there fully awake wrestling with the mental images that wouldn't leave my mind. Morning would come without sufficient rest, and my body would cry out for mercy.

Then there were days like the one when we received Lucy's match letter in the ER. Since she was my student, I manned up and said I'd handle it. I made the mistake of opening it up, reading it. She would have had a spot up in Psych. It was perfect for her. Lucy blew me away with her perceptiveness into the psyche of patients, into me. It would have been her place to shine. She was cheated out of the opportunity and I felt responsible. Because of me, she would never have the chance to live out her dream when it was right there, so close. I spent the day anguishing over Valentine's Day, my failure to listen to her, to monitor the whole case more closely, and recognize something was wrong in a timely way. My personal feelings of inadequacy permeated into everything I did that day.

I was in a trauma with Deb who was having trouble tubing the patient. She almost had it, a couple seconds more, she would have been in and the patient would have been fine, but I couldn't wait. The monitor signaling the decline in his sats rattled me. The incessant beeping was registering in my brain like the very last gasps of life. I had to restore breathing. I forcefully pulled the tube of the optic scope up and out of his mouth, the head of the scope hitting her in the nose. It probably took longer to do that than just letting her finish. As I was bagging the patient, I physically pushed her to the side and took over the trauma like I could handle it all myself. She and Lily both stood there with these disbelieving looks on their faces. We stabilized the patient and then got into one hell of a fight over it. It was loud enough for Dr. Weaver to come, break it up and send us to our corners. We've never fought like that before or since.

That same day, I was working with Carol. We were treating Pablo, one of our frequent flyers, when he accidently knocked over an instrument tray. The crash as it all came down on the floor sent chills down my spine and the memories of the attack flooded my brain. It surprised me. I wasn't prepared for my reaction. We were in sutures, not the curtain area. I immediately ordered soft restraints. Carol protested loudly, but I pushed Haldol over her objection. Carol exploded. "This is Pablo, they don't come any gentler!" She refused to help with the restraints. Mad as hell once more, I left the room, hurling my gloves to the floor.

We had a chance to air it out a little later. Carol asked me how I was doing. She was concerned about my overreaction to Pablo. I dismissed it as a bad call. How could I explain to her I was reliving that awful day over and over and over and over and it never changed? How could I tell her each cycle brought a more burdensome load of guilt and remorse? How could I tell her what Lucy meant to me, what I lost, for her and for me, what I'd never be able to get back for either of us? I couldn't even share that with Deb. She tried to sympathize, telling me about how life changes and you have to give yourself some time to get used to it. I couldn't say much, but I showed her Lucy's match letter. She said "there's always going to be something, Carter."

I asked her, "What do you do?" I figured, why not ask. What I was doing damn sure wasn't working.

Her answer? "Go back to work." Gee, that was helpful – NOT!

The long, horrible day was finally over and I headed for my locker. Deb was already in the lounge getting ready to leave. I apologized for my brash behavior earlier and the angry words. She looked up at me with so much care and concern in her eyes and said "John, I'm worried about you." I knew she genuinely meant it and I did want to confide in her. It was just hard for me to find the right words. I didn't want anyone thinking I was a psych case with all these morbid thoughts. I was too proud to admit I needed psychiatric counseling. After some mental wrestling, I pulled the envelope from my pocket and showed it to her.

She read it and compassionately looked up at me. In a reassuring voice she said "I didn't know Lucy very long, but I knew her well enough to know she was definitely your MO and I know you well enough to know you still have unresolved feelings for her. I'm sure it's difficult with no way to reconcile them."

I bowed my head, she was completely right. I looked at her nervously and asked "so what do I do?"

She shook her head as she gave it some serious thought. "You know when I found out about Anthony, it was really hard for me to be in the same place he was. When the hospital closed and our residencies got transferred, I made the choice not to go where he was. Coming here, being away from those memories really helped. Have you thought of completing your residency somewhere else?"

I couldn't imagine being anywhere other than County, but if it would make the memories stop and quiet the voices, it was worth considering. There was one problem though. The match was already over, and if I looked for a spot outside the match, my chances of being chief resident would be reduced to nil.

It was at that point, I took a two pronged approach to my problem. I continued to take the Fentanyl to ease my anxieties about Curtain 3 and treating patients in that room. I also started to take anti-depressants to deal with the voices and memories I couldn't deal with anymore. It was a dangerous cocktail and a very slippery slope. I was well down the road to my own destruction.

The combination of self dosed drug therapies caused radical shifts in my mood. One minute I'd be drag-ass, the next I'd be almost manic, and the next I'd be downright depressed. Deb and I would typically meet for coffee at Doc Magoo's before our shift whenever we worked together. One particular morning, I was having such a tough time getting moving that I called to cancel. We met on our way in the door and she greeted me with a warm hello. I mumbled "well it's morning" as we walked into the lounge.

We were stowing our stuff in our lockers when she mentioned I looked terrible. Weaver happened to be on a rampage that day and came in mad as hell. She gave us an ear lashing about being late. We were to have our asses out there and seeing patients at 7am sharp. She rounded everyone up and ran the board, spitting out rapid fire assignments as she went down the list of patients. I was assigned a patient in Curtain 3. Oh shit! I thought. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to do it with some uppers.

I walked with Dave down the hall, dreading Curtain 3 all the way. He too felt compelled to tell me I looked piss poor. I ducked into the men's room, made sure the coast was clear and reached in my pocket for my stash. It didn't take long before I was feeling more up to the facing the foreboding curtain.

I was working up the patient in Curtain 3 when Weaver sent me another one to handle in the next bed. Instead of finishing up the first patient and then addressing the second, I worked them up at the same time. Mind you, this is not something any doctor with his mental faculties in tact would ever do. Deb walked in and noting the improper history I was taking, offered to help. I told her I was fine as I continued to work up both patients at the same time. Rightfully dubious of what she saw, she kept a careful eye on me as she left the room.

I was bursting with energy and frustrated that Malik hadn't started the IV drip for the patient in Curtain 3 , so I got it started myself. The problem with a tandem workup, especially when one is on uppers, is that it's so easy to get details confused. I started her on a drip of a drug she was allergic to. Her reaction was almost immediate. I panicked. Not only was the patient in physical distress, I was in danger of being busted. I tried to cover my ass by pulling out her IV. I got no help from the patient in the next bed who hit the nurse's call button. Malik and Deb both came running into the room. Puzzled by the blood on the floor, they asked what happened. I had to think fast. I told them the patient pulled her own IV out, but neither one was buying it. I snapped at Deb. It was harsh and defensive. The look on her face was one of horror. I knew I was out of control and a danger to my patients.

I hurried out of there and went directly to the men's room. I locked myself in a stall and cried out of frustration. I was broken, I was out of order. I put a patient in jeopardy. I directly violated rule number one: DO NO HARM! I was sick of myself and I hated it. I hated the memories. I hated the voices. I hated the feelings I couldn't get rid of. I couldn't continue on like this. I had to find another way to deal with it all. I got the uppers out of my pocket and flushed them down the toilet. That was a start I thought. I can beat this, I thought. I took a break. I walked down the street to the convenience store and bought my second pack of cigarettes.

Outside, I lit up. I leaned against the wall and pondered my morning. How long could I keep everything inside before I burn out or blow up or in some way self destruct? Will this keep going until I finally kill someone or can I regain control before that? I was using only prescription drugs. It wasn't like I was a heroin junkie like Chase. My real problem wasn't even the drugs, it was those damn memories, the voices, the feelings. They caused so much pain and anguish. If I could just get rid of them, I'd be fine. I finished my cigarette and returned to the ER.

Around noon, Deb grabbed me and asked me out to lunch. I told her I wasn't hungry and didn't have time. She was very insistent, even leading me by the arm to Doc Magoo's. To make her happy, I ordered lunch. I took a bite or two, but I couldn't manage anything more than that. I felt bad that I yelled at her that morning and apologized. She tried to talk to me about what happened. I genuinely wanted to talk to her, but I couldn't figure out how to articulate what was going on in my head. The memories that brought physical pain and the voices in my head that wouldn't stop were far beyond normal and reasonable. The last thing I wanted to be was a psych case. It was far easier to deflect her concerns. I took out a cigarette and lit up. "What's up with the cigarettes" she asked.

I defended myself, "are you going to give me a problem about smoking now too?"

She reached over the table and put her hand on my arm. "John, I'm really worried about you. Each day you seem to be less and less like yourself."

I tried to assure her that I was working on getting it together. It was tough and I was having to work through some pretty big challenges, but I'd get there. I'd be alright. She didn't seem to be very convinced though. I'm pretty sure she went and talked to Dr. Greene after lunch because later that day, he had a talk with me about getting some psych help. He even gave me a list of doctors I could call. I told him I would, but after he left, I wadded up the list and threw it in the trash. I was not a damn psych case.

I tried even harder to maintain a level demeanor at work in order to avoid such conversations again. I completely withdrew socially for the same reason. Too many people were noticing I was not right. Too many people were trying to tell me I needed help. I still thought I didn't need help. I could handle it on my own.


	13. Intervention, Season 6 Finale

**Intervention**

91 days. 13 weeks. Three months. It doesn't take long to destroy your life, especially when you have the help of a powerful opiate like Fentanyl. Though admitting it was still a long way off, it held me tightly in its grasp. I was no less a junkie than the guy in the back alley shooting up heroin.

Everyone had cleared out of the trauma room. I stood there alone with a syringe of Fentanyl in my pocket. Like many previous traumas, I easily slid it in there unnoticed as everyone's attention was on the patient. I would usually steal away into a stall in the men's room to inject the much needed drug. This time it was different. In this particular trauma, the patient was not properly sedated before we attempted to pop the femoral head back into place. I was thrown across the room, stopped only by the wall, which sent me crashing to the floor. It was another brutal attack inflicted by a patient.

I needed treatment of my own for a trauma of my own. I walked over to the sink, hiked my watchband up and wiped the area with a sterile pad. I looked over both shoulders to make sure the room was clear before I got the syringe out of my pocket and injected its contents into my wrist. Before I could finish the push, Abby came back in looking for the patient's chart. I tried to be cool and conceal what I was doing. We talked briefly without ever facing each other and then she disappeared through the double doors. Despite the opiate coursing thru my system, an overwhelming sense of doom came over me.

A couple hours later, Dave and I went to the lounge for a coffee break. Dr. Greene, Dr. Weaver and Abby were seated at the table in the corner. Dave casually asked if someone called a staff meeting. Weaver replied no and Dave returned to our conversation. I made out like I was listening to him, but my stomach was churning, my heart was pounding and my mind was racing. Doom was imminent. Dr. Greene asked Dave to "give us a minute" and me to "hold on". Doom was now.

Abby was dead on about what she saw. Dr. Greene asked me about the pain medicine I was taking for my back and if I was overmedicating. I got defensive. I rattled off a laundry list of my own drug seeking behaviors and then categorically denied them. My carefully crafted world was rapidly coming unraveled at the hands of this med student that barely knew me.

After the little powwow, I went out to the ambulance bay for a smoke. I was jittery over the conversation I had with Dr. Greene, Dr. Weaver and Abby, but I was downright unnerved about the conversation Dr. Greene and Dr. Weaver were having about me at that moment. I sat there trying to come up with a defense strategy, but I couldn't get my mind to focus. I wanted another fix. It was consuming my mind.

Dr. Greene came out and sat next to me. He said he was worried about me. Join the crowd, I thought. He asked me if I'd seen someone about my problems. I realized I was going to have to open up a little bit about what I was going through. I told him "it's nothing I've felt like talking about. It's been rough. I've been in a lot of pain. This place is not exactly the easiest work environment. Lucy's dead, which is partly my fault." It was a lot of honesty and it was just coming out of my mouth. The problem was, I didn't stop there. I continued "I haven't slept in months. I had to take more pain medicine to even function." Shit! Did I just say that? I couldn't believe I just admitted to upping my dosage on my prescribed pain meds.

I was sure my ass was out of there, but he told me "I think you need help Carter." I begged him for understanding. I tried to get him to see that I needed to be allowed to deal with it on my own. It didn't work. He put me on inactive duty. I was to do QA chart reviews only. No patients. He told me "you have to trust me. Let me figure this out." He got up and left. I was grateful to still have my job. I was thankful he was enough of a friend to want to help, but I realized as I watched him walk back into the ER, that I had just lost any hope of keeping this private and under my own control. I sat there contemplating my fate. When I finished my cigarette, I lit up another one and contemplated some more.

I smoked four or five cigarettes on that curb. Watched ambulances pull up, patients rolled out. Paramedics looking at me like why the hell are you just sitting there? At one point, Abby came out to wait for an ambulance. She stared over at me, tried to give me a compassionate look, but I didn't want to look at her. As far as I was concerned, she was the bitch that busted me.

When I reached my saturation point of tar and nicotine, I came in and sat at a desk in the admit area to do chart reviews. Dr. Weaver came up and asked if I had a minute. I told her "No, I'm done with these. You guys don't want me to see patients, I'm going home." It had been several hours since I last took any Fentanyl, or my pain meds for that matter. I was ill. I didn't just want a fix, I needed one, but I damn sure wasn't going to pop anything in the ER any more. Going home would allow me to do what I needed desperately needed to do.

Weaver wasn't about to let me go home that easily. "Not yet" she told me "I need to talk to you." I asked if this was my suspension. She replied "Not here. Come on" and led me down the hall. Oh man, that was one long, hard walk. My friends Doom and Dread were along for the ride and getting the better of me. Dr. Weaver motioned me into the room. I opened the door and as I walked in, I saw Dr. Benton directly in front of me. I could tell by his posture that he'd been informed about some of my recent behaviors.

I scanned the room. Deb, Dr. Greene and Dr. Anspaugh were there as well. Having entered behind me, Dr. Weaver shut the door. There wasn't anywhere to run, there was nowhere to hide. It was clear this was an intervention. I wasn't up for the public flogging. I didn't need the humiliation and I damn sure wasn't going to stand there and be ambushed. I tried to leave.

Dr. Greene verbally stopped me, "Carter, just listen."

Pride. It completely took over. It got me into this mess, and it wanted to keep me in this mess. I tried to stop it. I explained, "No, I told you, I'm on pain killers for my back, but I'm functioning." I was short and irritated. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to listen to anything they had to say.

The only reason why I didn't storm out the door at that moment was because Dr. Anspaugh advised me "to be quiet and listen." As a surgical intern, I had my run-ins with this man. He had a gruff exterior, a "don't mess with me" attitude and he commanded absolute respect. But in my dealings with him, I found that underneath all that, he was truly a caring and compassionate man. I still respected him enough to heed his warning.

I heard Dr. Greene saying that his van's outside and they had a ticket for me to Atlanta where there's a drug rehab center that specializes in treating doctors with addictions. It was surreal, like being underwater. I was receiving the sound muffled and in slow motion. It wasn't quite registering that he was talking to me. As far as I was concerned, I wasn't an addict. I only used prescription medicine. It wasn't like I was doing street drugs for recreation. I only used the medicine to deal with the trauma I suffered back on Valentine's Day. When the memories, voices and those damn feelings went away, the medicine would too. In my mind, it was all pointless. I didn't need it.

Dr. Greene continued, "It's apparent to all of us you have a drug problem. We can't allow you to continue working here or anywhere else as a physician. So you have two choices, get in the van, go to the airport, check yourself in and when you come back, we will support you in any way we can."

"Or, I'm fired?" I asked indignantly.

"Yeah." He was dead serious. Strange, I was the victim here and yet he seemed so pained in his stance.

I started to think about everything I'd been through since Valentine's Day, since coming back to work. I thought I handled all of it as well as anyone could expect. Even though I was in a lot of pain, I came to work. I did my job. I didn't complain. Quite frankly, I resented their attitudes. They were on their high and mighty horses and knew nothing of my personal hell. And they had the nerve to tell me what to do? They thought they knew what was best for me? It pissed my off. I was outraged.

I launched into a defensive tirade. I threw all the mistakes they made, back in their faces to show that no one, including each of them, is perfect. Deb, my friend, I went to take her down first. I got right in her face about the guide wire. She stood there silently as I angrily yelled at her. It spooked me. I moved on to Dr. Greene who stood there just as silently.

As bad as it was, it got worse. Dr. Weaver accused me of compulsive, drug seeking behavior. I tried to deny it. She demanded to see my wrists. Pissed as hell, I took off my lab coat and started rolling up my sleeves. I was incensed that she asked and wanted to prove her wrong in the worst way. Any chance of that happening however, was lost when she wanted me to take off my watch.

I couldn't do that. All the evidence she needed was there. They'd all know for sure. My personal, private hell would be laid bare for all to see. I was too proud for that. I was too afraid of that. I was angry and frustrated. I felt helpless and out of control. My emotions were all over the place. I couldn't get a grip on myself. I was trapped and I had to get out of there even if it meant chewing off my own arm. I bolted for the door, telling them I quit.

Peter, he wouldn't take "I quit" for an answer. He went after me. We had a heated exchange from the lounge, through admit and out the doors into the ambulance bay. He fought damn hard to make me to see I needed help, I needed to get in that van. He wasn't presenting "no" as an option.

In my state of mind, "no" was the only acceptable option. I had a lot of respect for Peter and worked hard to please him, to be held in acceptable regard by him. But that night, it was all about me. I didn't care what he thought, I just wanted to keep walking. I wanted to get as far the hell away from that hospital as I could and never come back.

He forcefully asserted his will "Carter you're out of control, man. If you can't see that, I don't care, but you're getting your ass in that van!" He grabbed my arm and I slapped his hand off me. He kept trying to grab me and push me toward the van. I kept shoving him away, finally demanding "don't touch me!" I'd never used that tone with him before.

"Where does it end man, huh?" He asked. I didn't know. The truth was, I had stopped factoring tomorrow into any plans or decisions some time ago. It was enough of a problem for me to just make it through the day. "This week Fentanyl, next week you end up dead or worse you end up like your cousin some babbling gork in a nursing home?" I hauled off and took a hard swing at him, knocking him into the van. In my mind, I wasn't a junkie like Chase. I wasn't on heroin, like he was. My situation was different. I was using prescription drugs and I was using them out of necessity, not choice. It wasn't recreational at all. I needed them to function.

"Carter you want to fight that's cool man, either way, you're getting your ass in the van!" I thought about what he was saying, what he was trying to do for me, what I was and what I was doing. It hurt. I didn't want to be a junkie. I didn't want to end up a babbling gork. I was scared and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think straight. I tried so hard not to, but I couldn't help it. I was broken and couldn't hold up under the strain any longer. I gave up. I cried. Hard.

Peter reached his hand over to the back of my neck and pulled me into his chest, putting his other arm around me as well. I felt safe in his embrace. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed uncontrollably. He softly whispered "It's alright man." I reached up with my hand, and put it against his neck and shoulder. I needed to feel the warmth of his love. He gently rocked and comforted me right there on the street corner. He kissed me on the top of the head and let me know it'd be okay. He was there for me.

It was the most unmanly of moments and yet, somehow, I felt more like a man than I had in a very long time.


	14. Cleaning Up My Act, Bridges Season 6 & 7

**Cleaning Up My Act**

It was a rainy Chicago night when Peter convinced me to get in that van. By the time we arrived at the airport, I had calmed down, but I was a long way from being fine. Unlike the rain, the fog of my mind had lifted and I was apprehensive of what was to come. Diaphoretic, weak and jittery, I didn't think I could get on that plane. Peter kept telling me "you can do this, man". I kept shaking my head, I wasn't really functioning any more. He encouraged me, "You've done the hard part Carter. Now you just got to get to Atlanta."

The ticketing agent handed me my boarding pass and gave me directions to my gate, but as much as I'd traveled through O'Hare, I couldn't comprehend her simple instructions. I made her repeat them twice. Peter asked "Do you need me to come with you, man?" With my head hung low, I weakly nodded.

I sat in the window seat and looked out across the night sky. The ascent through the rainclouds was a very bumpy ride. Wind gusts rocked the plane from side to side. Flashes of lightening and rolls of thunder were frightening as the plane rose higher. It seemed to take forever to reach cruising altitude above the storm, but we made it to where the skies were clear. Without the city lights to dim them, the stars shined brightly, and the ride was calm.

Peter Benton sat in the next seat and read silently. We didn't say anything, but his very presence spoke volumes to me. It dawned on me that he was the plane that lifted me above the storm of my life much like the plane we were flying on at that moment. I couldn't have done it without him. I know that when we get to Atlanta, he'll turn around and go back to Chicago. I'll have to navigate the remainder of this trip alone. That scared the hell out of me.

We arrived in Atlanta and the first thing I noticed when we stepped outside to get a taxi was that it was still warm and humid in the middle of the night. It was a bit disconcerting and I found my breathing labored. I looked over at Peter. He looked quite concerned about my physical condition. He put his arm around me and said "you can do this, man. We're almost there." I shoved my hands in my pockets and nodded numbly.

The taxi driver chatted endlessly in some non-southern accent as we snaked through the city to get to a place he called Midtown. The skyline was impressive with a myriad of skyscrapers lit up for night. It was strange, this city embedded in the deep south, didn't look much different than Chicago. Oddly, I found that comforting.

We arrived at Frederickson's Rehabilitation Center. Margaret handed me a clipboard with several forms to fill out and directed me to the bench. By this point, I was emotionally lost, broken, and spent. Physically, I was exhausted, weak and diaphoretic. The simple task was too much. Peter tried to help me out, but was told that it was important for me to check myself in. He leaned over as I sat on that bench and asked if I was ok. I told him I guess so, I really didn't know though. After a few words of encouragement, he turned to leave. I watched him disappear down the hall and out the door. I was alone, scared…and alone, very alone.

It was 5am. I'd been up almost 24 hours and spent at least the last 12 without any drugs in my system whatsoever. I felt sick to my stomach, my palms were sweaty, my head was pounding and knowing I couldn't have a fix, all I wanted to do was lie down. Margaret made me go meet "the group". I protested, but she told me I had to do the program, if I didn't, I could leave and score a fix on Tenth and Piedmont. It was a very tempting offer, but if I was ever going to be a doctor again, I would have to get through this program.

I made up my mind I was going to do everything they told me to do when they told me to do it, even if my heart wasn't in it. I didn't want to be there. I figured the more compliant I was, the sooner I'd be able to leave. When the facilitator asked me to share my story with the group, I didn't feel much like talking and even less like sharing my story, but I knew I'd better say something. I succinctly stated I was overmedicating on pain killers and taking Fentanyl to make it through my shifts.

After group, I was thankfully allowed to sleep. Waking up was rather disconcerting. My head was clear. I was able to put together coherent thoughts. My emotions also seemed to be under my control. It was an odd sensation that I had become unfamiliar with. I surveyed the room I was in. It looked like an upscale college dorm, nicely appointed. It seemed comfortable enough.

I caught sight of a clock on the wall. It was the kind of clock that displayed not just the time, but the date, the temperature inside and out and the moon cycle. It was 10:06am on June 2. At first I thought the clock must be wrong, because if it wasn't, I had lost two whole days. Then I noticed the IV in my arm. I followed the tube up to the saline bag. It was the familiar yellow mix we referred to as a banana bag. I had ordered it countless times to rehydrate and restore essential nutrients to countless drunks and addicts. It was then I realized I had been through detox and the seriousness of my situation really hit home.

The nurse entered my room. "Good morning Dr. Carter. I see you're awake. Hungry? I can get you breakfast." Her cheerful manner put me at ease and I told her that breakfast actually sounded pretty good. She replied, "That's the right answer! I can take that IV out for you now. My name is Cheryl, just let me know if you need anything. I'll be right back with your breakfast." A few minute later, she was back with a huge breakfast tray. "Today you get a personal buffet. Tomorrow you'll start selecting your meals and eat in the dining room." I thought, if I could just get rid of this hospital gown, I'd feel like I was an undergrad again.

The next person in to see me was Dr. Alex Briggs, who oriented me to the program. He confirmed that I'd already been through detox and told me what I could expect next. I was to see a psychiatrist for an hour each day, Monday through Friday. I would receive Life Skills therapy Monday through Saturday and when I was through with that, I would move on to Professional Skills therapy. Each day, there would be a morning group therapy session after breakfast, another after dinner and another whenever someone new checked in. I would have free time, but at first it would be tightly supervised. As I worked my way through the program, the supervision would be backed off.

Alex then informed me that therapy started right now. The first thing I had to do, was to call my family. I had to explain to them where I was, what I was doing there, and that I needed some clothes. It wasn't anything I wanted to do, but if I didn't do it, I wouldn't get out there. With much trepidation and trembling, I picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed. After the Chase incident, I thought my grandparents would blow up over the news. To my surprise, Gamma seemed happy to hear from me. She listened and then told me she missed me, she loved me and she'd support me, and of course, she'd get me some clothes. After our conversation, I hung up the phone and let out a big sigh of relief. Alex, who'd been listening to my side of the conversation, quietly said "very good. That's enough for today." In his best Arnold Schwartzenegger, he said "I'll be back…tomorrow."

Late that afternoon, Cheryl came in to my room and said, "You have a couple of visitors. Would you like to see them?" I had no clue who that would be, but I welcomed the diversion. "Okay, I'm going to bring them back" she informed me in her typical chipper manner. A few minutes later, she reappeared with Gamma and Gampa who personally delivered my luggage. I was so happy to see them I cried. I hugged Gamma tightly and had no intentions of letting go. They were both positive and supportive as we talked. Gamma told me that she got worried when I didn't come home. She'd gone to the hospital and found Deb, who explained what happened. She was prepared for my call.

Thirty minutes later, a man came into the room and Cheryl said "it's time for Gamma and Gampa to go now. If you'd like, they can come see you tomorrow evening." I looked hopefully at Gamma and was glad to see her nod. She hugged me goodbye. Gampa, ever stoic, patted my arm and then they were gone.

Cheryl introduced the man and said he would need to check my luggage before I unpacked. She and I both watched as he opened the suitcase and checked each piece of clothing. He went through every pocket, every cuff and every collar. Even my socks and underwear did not escape inspection. He laid each garment on the bed as he finished checking it. When he was done, he carefully inspected the suitcase. To say the process was humiliating, doesn't even begin to cover it. Cheryl explained the drug search was necessary. They had to make sure I would remain clean while I did the program. Back against the wall and head hung low, I meekly nodded.

The good thing about it though, was that I could now get dressed. I showered and shaved using the toiletries they provided. The shower felt awesome, it was like washing off the old me. Wearing my own street clothes helped me gain back of bit of my dignity. It also allowed me to leave my room. I was able to eat dinner in the dining room and then went to group session. I was officially on my way in the program.

The next day I met with Alex again for my psychiatric session. He had my chart and I could see the notes on my case were already plentiful. He flipped through the chart and something caught his interest. "Tell me about work. Why did you need to augment your meds to get through your shift?" I told him about the attack on Valentine's Day. It was a relief to finally be able to talk to someone about it uninterrupted. My first week, it's all we talked about. What happened, how I felt about it and how I tried to deal with it.

Life Skills therapy was another type of group session where we discussed how to handle problem situations. We talked about how to safeguard our home environment, how to avoid triggers in movies, music and TV. We were instructed on breaking ties with people who still engaged in problematic behaviors. Once a week, we had to attend an onsite NA meeting. I hated the Life Skills therapy. It seemed pointless to me, but I trudged through it with an outward positive attitude. I just kept telling myself to focus on the end goal, which was to get the hell out there.

The psychiatric sessions were definitely the most beneficial to me. By the end of the first week, Alex diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was a textbook case. People with PTSD re-experience a traumatic event again and again. They have frightening dreams and memories of the event and feel as though they are going through the experience over and over. That was certainly me.

We spent the remainder of my time at Frederickson's dealing with and working through my symptoms: the flashbacks, distressing memories, dreams, physical reactions to situations that reminded me of the Valentine's Day attack, and my sense of responsibility for what happened.

We talked a lot about Lucy, and my feelings for her. We talked about how those feelings affected my judgment. We talked about how I couldn't let me feelings control me, I had to take control of my feelings. It was extremely therapeutic. As the weeks went by, the torment caused by Paul Sobricki's brutal attack on Lucy and me eased to the point where I felt some amount of control over it. Eventually, I was able to sleep without waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

One of the last things Alex told me was that people with a good support system generally don't develop PTSD. I needed to make sure I developed one. I explained to him that when this happened to me, there were people I could have turned to, but I was too proud to ask for help. He advised me, "Pride has to go. You've got to be able to ask for help when you need it." I told him not to worry, that place took down my pride in short order.

Three months had finally passed. I woke up feeling good. I looked up at the clock. It was 7am on September 1 and 78 degrees outside. Awesome. Today, I would go home, back to Chicago where in the heat of the day, it wouldn't be much hotter than 78 degrees. I was nervous about it though. While I fully embraced the psychiatric sessions and found them to be enormously helpful, I had no such similar attitude about the Life Skills or Professional Skills sessions. I saw them strictly as something I had to go through in order to get out of here. But now that I was, I wished I had paid more attention.

My bags were packed and ready to go. I was given my final instructions for adjusting back to the life of the outside world. I said my goodbyes to Alex, Cheryl and Margaret and I walked out the door to my new life.

Right away, I was presented with frustrations that would test my resolve to stay clean. Due to mechanical difficulties, my flight was delayed two hours. The Atlanta airport is a huge place, almost a city onto itself. I found myself frightened by the prospect of finding something to do that didn't involve having a drink or other trigger behaviors. The lack of places to light up added to the frustration. I opted for the first class lounge. I found a comfortable chair in the corner far away from the bar and people. I sat alone reading a newspaper, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

It's a 90 minute flight from Atlanta to Chicago. All I wanted to do was to be left alone, but fate seated me next to this talkative guy who incessantly asked for information that was none of his damn business. When he ordered a drink, I got up and went to the bathroom to get away from him. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I thought back to my Life Skills sessions. Did we ever talk about what to do when you're stuck next to an annoying guy on a plane? I took my time in there. I had a cigarette. I washed my face. I shaved. When the air cleared, I went back to my seat. In short order, the flight attendant was there asking me if I had been smoking in the bathroom. I was admonished of my illegal activity punishable by a fine and imprisonment. At least it took care of talkative guy. He didn't say another word the rest of the flight.

It felt great to be back on the ground in Chicago. I looked around for Dr. Benton, but he wasn't there. With my flight delayed, I assumed it caused a conflict with work and I'd have to take a taxi home. I went to baggage claim to collect my suitcase and headed for the taxi stand. On my way, a guy came up to me and asked if I was Dr. Carter. Apparently, things got hectic in the ER and Benton wasn't able to pick me up.

The guy was a young medical student who had just completed his first day of his first rotation. He talked endlessly about his experience. I didn't pay much attention, his droning on was like a mild buzzing in my ear. My mind was focused on getting home, getting in my own bed for the first time in three months, and having all the peace and quiet I could take in.

We arrived at the entrance to the ambulance bay at County. I watched as squad car after squad car pulled up with lights flashing and sirens blaring. I knew something major was going on, but I wasn't going to have any part of it, not tonight. I got my jeep and went home.


	15. Rising Out of the Ashes, Early Season 7

**Rising Out of the Ashes**

It was good to be back home again feeling like a full, functioning human being. Nights were quiet and restful. Days were filled with rejuvenating activities I hadn't done in a long time. I even went horseback riding. I hadn't done that in years. The freedom to run the horse through the woods, jumping him over streams brought me back to my youth. While a little R & R was definitely in order, a man can only take so much leisure. I was ready to get back to life. I was ready to go back to work.

In my discharge instructions from Frederickson's, they included a list of AA and NA meetings near my home and hospital. Their recommendation was to attend meetings at least 3 times a week for the first three months and continue as needed after that. I scanned down the list and found a morning meeting near the hospital. Since I was meeting with Dr. Weaver and Dr. Greene about starting back on shifts, I thought I'd try out that session.

The NA meetings at Frederickson's in Atlanta were held in the rehabilitation center which was a nice facility. The room had comfortable sofas and chairs and a relaxed feel. This meeting was in an older building. The room looked like something out of the 50s. Comfort was not a consideration. Its appointment was rather utilitarian. It made me feel very ordinary. In an odd way, I liked the feeling.

I took a seat and began to listen to the women who volunteered to read through the steps. I surveyed the room. The people attending didn't look like the drunks or addicts I saw at County. They looked like regular, everyday, well functioning people. One person in particular caught my eye. She was a few rows up and on the other side of the room. Her hair was short, so I didn't realize at first who she was. As I watched her, she happened to look over in my direction. It was Abby. I gave her an acknowledging look before she turned back to face forward. I sat there and wondered if she ratted me out to Dr. Greene because I was in a place where she'd once been herself.

The next thing on my agenda for the day was to meet with Dr. Greene and Dr. Weaver about coming back to work. They were both very supportive, but also weary and cautious. I was allowed to come back on a probationary basis. I would have to submit to random urine tests, and go to NA or AA meetings daily during the first 90 days of my probation. Once a week, I would have meet with Dr. Weaver and Dr. Greene to review my progress, problems and challenges. Naltrexsone was also required. They told me I would have to start that day in order to be back on shift the next week. Dr. Greene handed me the bottle. I started to put it in my pocket when I noticed he was pouring a glass of water. As he pushed the glass in front of me, I understood even that would be monitored. Was there no end to the indignities I had to endure on my way back to real life? It was an extremely awkward moment, but with that swallow I was on my way to practicing medicine again.

Evening came and I had one more meeting to go when I stopped at Doc Magoo's for a bite. I was sitting in a booth, smoking a cigarette, contemplating just how tough the road ahead would be. I was out in the world now and having to navigate around all kinds of triggers I didn't feel prepared to face. Those life and professional skills sessions back in Atlanta, I should have paid more attention. Maybe I wouldn't feel so lost.

Abby walked in and ordered a cup of coffee. I got her attention by asking, "nice scrubs, picking up some extra shifts?" She told me no, just benched by her deadbeat ex-husband who didn't pay the tuition he was supposed to. I invited her to sit down and have that cup of coffee with me. I was hungry for some social interaction. I'd had very little in the past three and half months. I was lonely and feeling rather on the outskirts of society, having just come through the hell I did.

I felt compelled to apologize to her for my behavior on my last day of work. "You might have saved my life" I told her, "if you hadn't stopped me when you did, I could be dead now." She gave me an understanding smile, said she forgave me and asked for my cigarette. I nodded and she had no problem adopting it as her own. Maybe it was the extended dry spell I'd been experiencing, but the behavior struck me as rather intimate. I told her to keep it. It was the last cigarette I'd ever smoke anyway.

We talked about why she was at the AA meeting that morning. She told me she was an alcoholic who's been sober for almost 5 years. I asked her if she would sponsor me. I thought it would be great to have someone at the hospital I could talk to, who understood the triggers, had experienced them and could help me deal with them. She seemed so hesitant, I employed guilt. "You did sort of start me on the road to recovery" I reminded her, like she owed it to me to follow through.

Her response was to inform me that men and women are not supposed to sponsor each other. I told her not worry about that. She took it as an insult, but I didn't mean it that way. She was attractive in her own way, but as Deb would put it, she just wasn't my MO. I mean, she looked too much like my mother. I didn't have much of a relationship with my mom and it kind of turned me off to women with dark hair and dark eyes and dark personalities. I much preferred blondes with an optimistic character.

I was able to recover from my comment and got her to at least agree to work the steps with me until I found a permanent sponsor. To my surprise and delight, she brightened up, even stating that coffee and cigarettes weren't going to do it for her that night. She wanted a hot fudge sundae and thought we ought to share it. After some debate, we settled on a slice of apple pie with a scoop of ice cream.

I enjoyed sitting with her, talking and eating pie that evening. Something about her just made me feel relaxed and at ease, comfortable. She was no longer the med student who tattled on me, but a friend who I could rely on, someone who would walk along with me on the long and winding road to recovery. It was the dawn of the season of my life I call "The Abby Years".


	16. Light and Easy Doesn't, Early Season 7

**Light and Easy Doesn't**

My first day back at County after rehab was a mixture of both welcome and overwhelm. The patients and the general craziness we call the ER were familiar enough, but as I worked my way down the hall and into lounge, amid the warm hugs from the nurses were several unfamiliar sights. Dave had beach bum hair, Deb was sporting a sizable baby bump, admit looked like a war zone in its mid construction state, and Dr. Greene and Dr. Corday had gotten engaged and bought a house. I thought I was gone for three months, but from the look of things, you'd of thought it was three years.

To add to the feeling of being left behind the times, I lost my locker while I was gone. Dr. Greene had put its contents in a box above the locker row. He retrieved it and then told me that if I had a challenge about a case, a patient or anything, to find him and talk it out. I told him I would, but I guess I wasn't exactly convincing. He gave me a doubtful look. I reassured him that I would. One thing my experience taught me was to never let pride get in the way when you need help.

I watched him as he left the lounge. I was determined not to let him down. I knew I would have to earn back his trust. I picked up my stethoscope, held it in my hands and stared at it. I thought, am I ready for this? I was so damn scared. I put it around my neck, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then walked out the door to embrace my fresh start.

Dr. Weaver greeted me on my way to the desk to get my first chart. She informed me of the rules by which I had to play: only minor medical, no trauma, no sutures, no needles, no narcotics, no procedures. That didn't leave me with much but the chance to practice medicine again. It definitely was a frustrating challenge. It was like being a third year med student again but with the knowledge and skill of a third year resident.

While everyone was very welcoming to me that day, Deb was the only one to actually ask me about rehab. Being the close friends that we were, she felt comfortable asking and I felt comfortable answering. We were alone in the lounge when I told her I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She was a bit surprised. "PTSD?... I'd make one lousy psychiatrist. I thought you were symptomatic of the onset of manic-depression. "

I told her it was okay, it never occurred to me, or Dr. Greene or even Dr. Geraad for that matter, who was a psychiatrist. We work in a crazy ER where really whacked out things are part of the job. We don't think of them as events that affect us personally. "Besides" I told her looking down at the real estate of her belly "you were obviously distracted". Sensitive about her situation, she gave me an unsure smile.

Dave burst through the door at that moment. Seeing us, he held up one hand to shield his eyes and said "never mind me guys, just getting a cup of coffee and I'll be on my way." Deb rolled her eyes. After his exit, she remarked that he was driving her crazy. I laughed and told her that he had already accused me of being the baby's father. "Did you let him know you're not?" she asked. I shook my head. "Good!" she said with a mischievous smile. We both laughed. We always had a lot of fun leading Dave on with a lot of innocent innuendo and this gave us more ammunition to work with.

In their own ways, both Deb and Abby were indispensible to me on my first day and actually for the first few difficult weeks. Having endured many indignities on my way back to a clean life, I truly appreciated Deb's efforts to preserve what little ego I still had. Whenever I had a case that required something on Weaver's list of no's, I could go to Deb and she'd have something to swap with me. I think she made sure she carried at least one patient she knew she could hand off to me on a moment's notice. It helped to make me feel more like a doctor and less like a student again. I preferred going to her as everyone else would just take the case from me and leave me with nothing but empty time.

Abby was there with a sympathetic ear when I needed to vent my frustration over Weaver's list of no's. She had an encouraging word when I sat there with nothing to do. I also felt more comfortable knowing she was there. Abby's encouragement, direction and advice in navigating life in the ER as a recovering addict made the experience bearable.

Over the next six weeks, Weaver's list of No's grew steadily shorter and I was able to take on more and more interesting cases. Finally, I was allowed to work on traumas, provided that I worked no more than two patients at time. It was an accomplishment for me to be back at something close to a full swing and I was more than eager when my first trauma came in.

The guy was a bumsicle in asystole. Dave protested resuscitation, saying he was a frozen dinner. I ordered epi and a charge to 360. As far as I was concerned, he wasn't dead until he was warm and dead. I called clear and delivered the shock. Pigeons came out of God knows where and flew franticly around the trauma room. Everyone was trying to duck the birds but I just kept running the code. Looking back, it must have been a comical sight, but at the time, I was as serious as an MI.

My next trauma was a great save, or rather it should have been. A teenage girl came in who'd been shot in the chest. I found and repaired a leak in the back side of her heart, stabilizing her enough to go up to the OR. Haleh went to get the drug box leaving me momentarily alone with the patient. Another young girl walked in claiming to be the patient's sister and asked how she was. I told her she was critical and needed surgery. The girl fired at point blank range four or five times, sending blood and brains everywhere. People came rushing in to help, but I knew the girl on the table was dead beyond repair.

Worried that I wouldn't be able to handle the traumatic stress, Greene, Weaver and Kovac each told me to go home for the day. At first, I wanted to stay. The incident did not cause me to flashback or relieve Valentine's Day in any way. I knew that was huge step forward in my PTSD recovery. However, several minutes later, I was still rattled and unable to shake the uneasiness. I began to crave something to calm myself down. As the minutes passed, the craving grew stronger and consumed more and more of my mind. I had just experienced a major trigger and I knew it. The urge to return to drugs as a coping mechanism meant my recovery was in jeopardy and that scared the hell out of me. Unable to find Abby, or recall self help instruction from sessions in Atlanta, I was willing to go home. I knew I had to escape the easy access to drugs the hospital afforded me.

When I got home, I changed into my sweats and went out to the garage where I had some workout equipment set up. The physical exertion was a huge release and helped me refocus my mind in a positive direction. Gamma came out to the garage to talk. She knew I was supposed to be at work and she was worried something was wrong. She didn't want me working in a place she considered unsafe for my well being. Not wanting her to worry, I tried to reassure her I was okay. I had no luck convincing her, but I did manage to convince myself. I was encouraged by my new skill of positive self reinforcement and decided I was stable enough to return to work and finish my shift. Weaver was leaving for the day and expressed reservations about me doing so, but I was insistent. She gave in and told me no traumas. I was to take minor medical only. I was okay with that, but that was not to last.

Not even 30 minutes later, a major head trauma came in and Corday ordered me to assist despite Weaver's instructions. It was obvious she couldn't handle it alone and everyone else was busy. I ran in and worked the code with her. I remember looking up through the trauma room doors. Luka was standing there holding a bloody gauze pad to his head watching with great concern. Abby stood next to him, just as fixated on the trauma. I had a sinking feeling it was Luka who was responsible for the guy's injuries. Somehow, Abby was involved, but it didn't yet dawn on me they were on a date. I just looked at her like are you kidding me?

He'd been down for 45 minutes when Corday pronounced him. I looked up and saw that Abby and Luka were still on the other side of the trauma room doors. Luka looked extremely upset as he realized the guy died. He turned and bolted from the ER. Abby and I made the briefest of eye contact before she took off after him. That's when I realized they had something going on and it really bothered me.

Luka was a dark, mysterious and brooding man. In many ways, he seemed well suited to her temperament. But if he was capable of killing a man with his bare hands, was she really safe with him? I felt uncomfortable with the fact that they were dating, and even more uneasy about the possibility of that leading to a serious relationship. I decided to keep a careful eye on Luka, just to make sure Abby was okay.


	17. Women Friends, Mid Season 7

**Women Friends**

I spent a lot of my first three months back at work learning how to deal with all of the stress and trauma without giving in to the temptation to seek relief in a drug. The challenges were wide and varied. I'd developed somewhat of a friendship with Dave Malucci. He was an alright guy, but he wasn't the sort I could open up to and talk about what was going on inside. For that, I relied on my women friends. There were women friends I knew I had, and then there was a woman friend I learned I had. As chief of the ER, I thought of her as my boss.

The day I realized she was my friend was the day I treated a teenage boy who had unknowingly lived all his life with HIV. When he came in for treatment, not only did I have to tell him he had HIV, but I had to find out if he also unknowingly spread the infection to anyone else. It turned out he had a girlfriend and she tested positive. They got into a fight outside the ER and he walked into oncoming traffic. He came back in as a trauma, but we weren't able to save him and he died. His girlfriend cursed me and shouted it was my fault he was dead.

Feelings of guilt and responsibility descended upon me just as they did with Lucy's death. I was having an extremely tough time handling the situation. Normally I'd talk to Deb about things related to my PTSD, but she wasn't on that day. My next thought was to talk it over with Abby. I looked for her, but having issues of her own, she'd already clocked out.

The look on my face must have been one of terror and desperation because I was surely feeling that way on the inside. Dr. Weaver was concerned enough to ask me out to dinner. I didn't want to go. I thought she was going to be all boss-like. To my surprise, she wasn't in boss mode at all. We actually had a very nice dinner and really talked. She put me at ease enough to tell her about the PTSD and how it was my struggle with it that led to my seeking relief in a chemical solution. She had the same reaction as Deb. She found it shocking no one at County recognized it when the signs were so clear. She told me she knew enough about PTSD to know how important a support system was and that I could consider her part of mine. It meant a lot to me because I've always looked up to her.

My women friends have also taught me that a strained relationship with your mother isn't limited to sons. Daughters seem to have their fair share of mother problems. I remember when Abby and Deb were both dealing with mother challenges around Thanksgiving. Their mothers just wanted to spend the holiday with them. I guess because my own mother hadn't cared to spend the holiday with me in many years, I felt the need to heal their respective relationships with their mothers enough so they could enjoy the holiday together.

Abby's mother was bi-polar. Her condition caused Abby to have to grow up very early in life. It was a hard hand to be dealt and it hardened her attitude, especially toward her mother. On Thanksgiving Day, Abby sent her mother packing. It was not a successful effort as she returned, soaking wet, to the ER. Annoyed by the intrusion, Abby made her mother wait in chairs for hours while she finished her shift. I tried to get her to talk to her mom, even offered to help, but she refused.

It took an explosive force to get mother and daughter talking. I mean a real explosion. A couple of the pharmacy guys had a secret meth lab at the hospital and snuck the drug out in saline bags. Unfortunately for Abby, some of their "stock" got mixed in with our order. She unknowingly hung up one of the meth bags for a patient who was smoking in his room and BOOM! The patient was blown out of bed and Abby was knocked to the floor.

Maggie, who had been waiting in chairs, ran into the exam room right after me and Luka came just a few seconds later. Maggi_e_ kept calling for Abby as I made my way toward her. I found her on the floor and roused her to consciousness as Luka tended to the patient. I picked her up and carried her to a bed where I could treat her. Oddly, Luka seemed less concerned about Abby's injuries than I was. I thought that was strange. He was supposed to be her boyfriend and I was just a friend. Why didn't he care more? At that point, I became even more wary of Luka.

Abby cracked a rib, but had no lung damage. Tough girl that she was, she wanted to go back to work. I guess she needed to be tough with all the crap she went through as a child. Her father took off when she was very young. Her mother was bi-polar as far back as she could remember. She basically raised her brother. Despite the dysfunctional family life, she got a good education, got her nursing degree, even went on to medical school. When her deadbeat ex-husband defaulted on her tuition payments, she went back to her nurse's scrubs and kept right on rolling without missing a beat. She definitely knew how to triumph over adversity. I had to admire her resolve.

As soon as I allowed Abby to get up and move about, she was ready to go home. She walked out with her mom, the two of them arm in arm and talking. As far as I could tell, they even had a nice Thanksgiving together. When I called later to check on Abby, she was cooking dinner. Cooking! Abby! Maggie grabbed the phone from her so she could thank me for taking care of Abby. In the background, I heard Luka say something and Abby laughed. It seemed they were all having a nice evening together. Ah, success, at least for the moment.

Deb's Thanksgiving Day mother challenge wasn't something that could be fixed with something so easy as an explosion. Deb's mother came into the ER to invite her to Thanksgiving dinner. It was inevitable. She'd been dodging her calls for weeks. When she saw her daughter eight months pregnant, she was shocked to say the least, but still managed to invite her to dinner. From the admit desk, I heard Deb pleading with her mother. She was still very private about her situation and her uneasiness about a big gathering was clearly apparent, but her mother was insistent she come home.

I decided she needed a rescue and swooped in to whisk her away from her mother by saying I needed her help in Exam 1. Upon entering the room, Deb let out a huge sigh of relief. I was surprised she still hadn't told her parents about her pregnancy and asked her about it. "Tell my very traditional parents their unmarried daughter is pregnant?" Deb asked. I told her half the job was already done. Her mother knows now and got over the shock quick enough to still invite her to Thanksgiving dinner. She pointed out that was the easy part. The hard part was telling her Dad she was pregnant and telling them both, the father of her baby was not Chinese.

That was as forthcoming as she ever planned to be regarding the father of her baby. I had only my suspicion that he was black, which was based on my observations of her behavior around eligible men. Since she found it difficult to tell me he was black, I thought she was making the situation out to be more than it really was. I looked her in the eye and told her, "Deb, they're your parents. They raised you and they love you. They'll accept this and your baby. Tell them." She heaved a heavy sigh of fear. I assured her I'd be there for her. "Look, if things go south, call me. I've got nothing to do tonight." I was sure it would all be okay. I thought it would be a lot like telling my grandparents I was in rehab, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

I was about to sign out from my shift when she called and asked if we could meet at Doc Magoo's. It's not exactly where you want to have Thanksgiving dinner, but it was the only thing open. We sat in a booth over in the corner for a bit of privacy, not that it was a highly popular place that night anyway. Her eyes were red and puffy. I knew she'd been crying. Her voice was quivering as she spoke. "I told my mom about the baby, asked her if she'd still love him. She stood there with this look of horror on her face. She was so mortified she couldn't speak." Deb broke down into heavy sobs. I slid out from my side of the booth and slid back in on hers. She was quick to bury her face in my shoulder. She cried hard for a long time. All I could do is hold her in my arms and let her cry. I didn't know what to say at that point. I had no idea in this day and age, that anyone could be so prejudice.

I understood the tears to be not of fear, but of heartbreak. My own heart ached for her. As much as she wanted to keep that baby, her sense of family would not allow her to raise a child she knew her parents would not welcome into their hearts. How difficult it must have been for her in those early weeks as she wrestled all alone with the decision of whether or not to keep the baby. I was too wrapped up in my own little world to pay attention to what was going on in hers. I felt bad for her. As perhaps her closest friend, I'd failed her and I didn't know how to make things right. I did what I could. I sat with her and kept her company. I let her know she wasn't as alone as she thought, I'd always be here when she needed me.

When she more or less had her composure back, I called the waitress over and ordered two Thanksgiving Dinners. When the food came, Deb looked at me and said "you know what I'm thankful for?" After her good long cry, I couldn't imagine what that might be. She raised her hand, resting her elbow on the table and softly said "our friendship".

I grabbed her hand in mine and teasingly said "elbows off the table". She smiled, and took a bite of her dinner. I knew she was going to be alright. The rest of the evening was pleasant. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was having Thanksgiving Dinner with family.


	18. Battles of the Mind, Mid Season 7

**Battles of the Mind**

Under the terms of my probation, I wasn't supposed to work nights for another 30 days, but circumstances forced a change. Mark was seeing a specialist in New York and Deb, having difficulty staying on her feet through a twelve hour shift so late in her pregnancy, had already started her maternity leave. With two major players out of the rotation, Dr. Weaver had no choice but to schedule me on the overnight.

I was supposed to be off at 3am, but incoming traumas from a sizable pile-up on the interstate kept me busy until nearly six in the morning. Dr. Weaver arrived and was surprised to see me. She thanked me for my flexible attitude and gave me an extra hour before my next shift later that afternoon. With that, I was on my way home.

I took the El back to the Park and Ride, got in my jeep and drove the rest of the way home. I took a hot shower to wind down from my day. It was getting light so I shut my drapes and snuggled into bed. I couldn't have been there more than a minute or two when my pager went off. The number was from the OB floor at the hospital. That could only mean one thing. Tired as I was, I got up, got dressed and made my way back to the hospital.

I poked my head in the door just to see if it was okay to come in. Deb looked so vulnerable, so scared and so relieved to see me. She reached out her hand, letting me know she wanted me at her side. I walked over to her and she grabbed my hand. She told me she didn't want to wake me and waited as long as she could. She thought she could do it by herself, but found she couldn't.

I understood her need for privacy. Publicly, she didn't discuss her pregnancy or her plans for the baby. This wasn't a blessed event joyfully conceived with someone she loved. She was 30 years old, a doctor, pregnant and alone, a situation she knew how to guard against, but ended up there anyway. Kerry and I were the only people she trusted enough to share information with and even that was pretty limited. I let her know I'd be there for her. I was glad she took me up on it. I was glad I was able to bring her comfort and assurance. I told her it was okay, and for the rest of her labor, my hand was hers to hold.

I'd delivered a good number of babies and knew exactly what to do from a medical standpoint, but being a coach wasn't something I was trained for. Beyond telling her to breath and holding her hand, I didn't know what do. I hoped my simple presence would be enough. As it turned out, the situation was anything but simple and both she and the adoptive parents would employ me to gauge the thoughts, emotions and actions on the other side. I functioned not just as coach, but as a mediator, something I was totally unprepared for.

It didn't take long either. I'd been with Deb about an hour. She was fully effaced and dilated when a nurse entered and said the adoptive parents were there and wanted to come in. I could see by Deb's face, she wasn't up to handling that. She asked me if I'd go talk to them.

Out in the hall with the adoptive parents, James and Linda, I tried to be upbeat and positive as I let them know Deb wanted to deliver the baby privately. Linda took the news with critical concern. "Is she changing her mind? ….about giving the baby up for adoption?" she asked. From the look on her face, I could tell they had tried to adopt before only to have the mother change her mind. I tried to assure them everything was okay and that I'd bring the baby out to them as soon as he was born.

I returned to Deb in time to hear Dr. Coburn say "okay here we go!" Deb's water had broken and it was time to start pushing. I looked at Deb's face. I knew she was scared before, but now that the baby was almost here, her fear increased tenfold. I took her hand and put my arm around her for additional support. I kept my voice low and calm in an effort to ease her fears.

When you're a doctor delivering a baby, it's all business. You're focused on a safe delivery for both mom and baby. You don't notice the mother's face until the baby is out and crying. This was the first time I was involved on the other side. I watched as she summoned her inner strength with each push. I watched as she endured the powerful contractions that move the baby down the birth canal.

I watched her face as she heard her baby's first cry. She stared up at the ceiling unable to look down. Her face registered all the exhaustion, all the effort, all the pain and all the emotional hurt of the knowledge that this baby would be placed in the arms of another woman. I brushed the hair from her eyes, rubbed her shoulder and told her what a great job she did. Tears welled up in her eyes and as she lost her battle to contain them, they started their freefall.

His one minute APGAR was a 9. He was a very healthy little guy. Deb was still looking up at the ceiling, her tears still falling like rain. The nurse called me over to the bassinet. I gave Deb's hand a supportive squeeze before walking over there. The nurse quietly informed me of the baby's stats as she handed him to me. I looked over at Deb who had now turned her face to the other wall.

I walked out into the hall with the baby. James and Linda immediately stood up and smiled. Linda opened her arms to welcome her newborn son. James embraced the two them and together they cried out of the abundant joy his birth brought them. As grieved as Deb was to surrender the baby, this couple was elated. I let them know their son was 6 pounds, 14 ounces and 19" long.

When I returned to the delivery room, Deb was trying to pull herself together. Her job wasn't over yet, she still had to deliver the placenta. I tried to be supportive, encouraging and comforting.

By the time she was ready to go to recovery, she had regained enough composure to ask questions. She seemed concerned about surprising me. I started to tell her I kind of thought the baby's father was black, but stopped myself. She'd been so private about the whole thing, I thought it was better not to bring up my inner musings. She also asked about the parents and how they reacted to the baby. I did my best to assure her they were good people who would lovingly raise him.

I helped her get settled in the recovery area and planned on staying with her until they moved her into a postpartum room, but as the nurse explained what actually happens in recovery, I changed my mind. Deb seemed relieved. She told me to go rest in the on call room. Given that I'd now been up over 24 hours and I had a shift at 5pm, it seemed like a really good idea. I kissed her and told her I would check on her later.

Later came quickly. I hadn't been asleep an hour when my pager went off. It was the OB floor again. Uh oh, I thought. When I left, she seemed as well as you could expect given the circumstances. When I got back up there, Deb was extremely agitated and upset. She had gotten dressed, wanted to leave AMA and me to take her home. She was seriously distressed by something. As I tried to convince her she needed to stay at least the night for medical reasons, the adoption case worker said "Don't run away from this Jing Mei, hold your son, say goodbye."

Having watched the emotional battle she fought during delivery, how it was lost just hearing him cry, it seemed like such a cruel thing to do to her. Why torture her by making her hold the baby she carried for nine months, just so you can rip that baby from her arms and hand him to another woman? And then came Deb's response, "I don't think I can say goodbye".

I watched as she sat down on the bed and cried, every bit as hard as she did back on Thanksgiving at Doc Magoo's. The caseworker suggested that I talk to her, convince her to see the baby. She said if she didn't, she'd always wonder. This would give her closure. She and the nurse left and I sat down next to Deb.

I rubbed her back and spoke softly as I explained what the caseworker told me. She cried harder and turned her face away from me. I told her there was a reason why people need closure. It helps us to move forward and start living again, but it doesn't mean we shut the door and forget. After a very apprehensive breath, she closed her eyes tight and weakly nodded as she let out a quiet, painful whimper.

I went back across the hall to talk to the adoptive parents and the caseworker. I let them know that Deb agreed to see the baby, but that she really didn't want to. I asked if they were sure they wanted to make her do this. Linda felt like Deb would experience regret over not seeing her baby, enough to change her mind about the whole adoption. She and the caseworker were in agreement. I wasn't sure it was a valid argument, but I agreed to take the baby to Deb anyway.

With her baby in my arms, I stood in the doorway and asked, "Ready?" She made the very slightest gesture of a nod. In her eyes, I saw so much pain and angst, it was difficult to keep my own emotions in check. Walking across the room seemed like a mile. I carefully put her baby in her arms and watched once again as the tears came and soon turned to heavy sobs.

I didn't know how she summoned the strength to persevere through so much emotional distress, especially on top of being physically exhausted. I was in awe of her ability to endure it. The ordeal had certainly wreaked enough emotional havoc on me. I went downstairs to the ER. There was a pillow in the on call room with my name on it. However, I ran into a detour on my way there. James caught me in the hall. He was frantic. His wife was frantic. Deb was breast feeding the baby.

James brought me upstairs where the caseworker was trying to calm Linda down, who at this point, was near panic. After some debate about what could, would or should happen next, Linda asked me to talk to Deb, find out what she was feeling. She was deeply afraid of losing the baby.

I walked into Deb's room. She had the baby nestled in her arms. She tenderly and lovingly stroked his hair and played with his little fingers as he suckled at her breast. She looked like a new mom bonding with her newborn son. Linda's worst fear was becoming a reality. She was challenging own her decision.

She asked me "Eighteen years from now, when he comes looking for me, do I tell him I was a coward? That my bigoted parents were more important to me than he is?"I didn't think for a moment she was a coward. If she was, she would have silently swept the baby from her life eight months ago and not faced this. She was caught up in the emotion of holding her baby. For the moment, that could trump all her other concerns that were valid and figured prominently in the decision she made. I had to get her to focus beyond the emotion of the moment and think about what the right thing to do was for herself, the baby and the couple nervously waiting across the hall.

"Deb I think you got to take your family out of this. If you want to keep the baby, then keep the baby. But if you don't, or can't, then you want to make sure he goes to someone who's going to love him. Who's going to want him and know that you're not abandoning your baby, you're creating a family."

She looked at her son and cried as she painfully considered her options. It was hard to watch her struggle with such a heavy decision; one that had to now be made quickly, would be final and affect four lives forever. I tried to help her. "Deb, what do you want for your son? Think about what are the most important things that a child needs as he grows up."

"You grew up without having much of a father in your life" she stated.

I nodded "but I had grandparents that stepped in and pretty much raised me."

There were plenty more tears, after which she finally settled the matter in her mind. I gave her a few moments alone to say goodbye to her son. When I came back in, she seemed more at peace with her decision. That was very good, because she would need it for what came next.

James and Linda entered the room with optimistic caution. Deb tried valiantly to have a positive attitude. "What's his name?" she asked.

James answered, "Michael, Michael Alexander."

Deb very sweetly greeted little Michael before handing him to Linda. Linda cradled him in her arms and sang "Baby Mine". It seemed so territorial, like the maternal equivalent of peeing in the corners. I watched Deb. She was trying so hard to keep herself together. Tears were once again falling and I put my hand on her shoulder. She kept stroking my hand as if it were a replacement for her baby. I don't know that she even realized she was doing it.

When they left with baby Michael, Deb's tears were free flowing. I held her as she cried.

The experience was emotionally draining and physically, I was challenged by the lack of sleep, but in the end, it was very rewarding. I was glad I was able to be there for Deb when she really needed me, something I had not always been in the past.

I was finally able to make contact with the pillow in the on call room. I had enough time for three hours of rest. I actually got three hours and 17 minutes when my pager roused me to consciousness. Groggily, I looked at it. This time it was the ER. I guess I didn't respond fast enough because in short order, Randy appeared at the door exclaiming "multi trauma MVA. Motor cycle hit a minivan. Let's go!"

What the hell was anyone doing on a motor cycle in December in Chicago? The biker came in first. He was a Hell's Angels type and had a small pharmacy of medicine with him. Someone set the bottles on the counter during his workup. I ordered a CT and left the trauma room. Out in the hall I heard someone say that the minivan was a van van and a lot of kids were hurt and coming in.

As the kids came in, the ER was thrown into a bit of chaos as patient to doctor ratio maxed out. I was working the kids with expediency. I assessed a girl as needing the kind of treatment we're set up for in the trauma rooms. Trauma 1 was occupied and thinking the motorcycle guy was up in CT, I tried to take her to Trauma 2. When I saw Hell's Angel was still there, I ordered the girl to curtain 3. I went back to get the supplies I needed out of trauma 2. The room was empty except for me, biker dude and his bottle of Vicodin.

I was squatting in front of the lower cabinet getting the supplies I needed. I saw this bottle on the counter in front of me and it was like I momentarily stepped outside my own body. I just left, you know, like a mindless response, I grabbed the bottle and poured out a couple of pills. I popped them in my mouth and swallowed.

Having the supplies I needed, I walked back out into the hall towards curtain 3. As I walked, it was as if I came back to my body. I realized what I had done. I realized the bottle on the counter was a trigger and I pulled it. BANG! I was dead! I started to panic. I heard the voices of people in the hall, but none of it registered. My mind was racing as it tried to process the crime.

I wanted to backup, rewind and try again, but this was real life. It wasn't that simple. I had to get the offending drug out before it affected my system. I rushed for bathroom, locked myself in a stall, fell on my knees and desperately tried to throw the pills up. I stuck my fingers as far down my throat as I could in order to induce vomiting. Finally they came up. I dug them out of toilet and inspected them. Thankfully, they showed no signs of breakdown. I on the other hand, did. Right there in the stall, I cried.

Like I'd seen Deb do several times earlier that day, I battled to pull myself together and face the consequences of my own actions. I had to tell Abby. She was my sponsor. I walked by the same people, still giving me vitals that wouldn't register. I found Abby in the hall and insisted on talking to her at that moment.

Ironically, we found a private place to talk in the drug lockup. I told her what happened. She asked me, "You vomit them up?" I handed her the pills, but I couldn't look her in the eye. I was so ashamed of what I had done.

"I don't know what I was thinking. _**I don't know what I was thinking**_. I didn't want to take anything. I didn't plan on taking anything. I just saw 'em, umph". I was so frustrated with myself I couldn't speak. I just made this grabbing motion in the air a couple of times to finish my sentence.

Abby had her work cut out for her. She tried to calm him down. She wanted me to tell Dr. Weaver what I'd done, but I couldn't. She was adamant, but I was too. "Well then I'm done! Best case scenario, I'm back in Atlanta…Does it count? It was never in my system."

For the moment, she convinced me to convince Weaver that I was sick and needed to go home. Turns out, she was just around the corner. To my surprise, she didn't get all "Weaver-like" when I told her. She knew I'd been up all day with Deb and was surprised I showed up for my shift in the first place. Damn! That would have been the smart thing to do. If I had just gone home, I wouldn't be in this mess.

Abby and I left. There was an AA/NA meeting at a Catholic church about 10 minutes from the hospital. How convenient I thought. I can ask for forgiveness and do my penance all in one place. I'd never been to this particular meeting before. This one was almost all drug addicts. As I listened to them share, I realized that the particulars changed from person to person, but the general story was always the same and it sounded a lot like mine. But, I wasn't like them, was I?

After the meeting, Abby offered to treat me to coffee and pie. Normally, this would be an irresistible offer, but my mind was still processing through the stories I'd heard, comparing them to my own. The reasons they used to excuse their behavior weren't any different than mine either. I had a lot to think about but I was beyond tired. I really just wanted to go home and go to sleep. I thanked her for getting me out of the ER and bringing me to that particular meeting, and let her know I appreciated the help. I really did appreciate the help.

We go to a meeting.


	19. Truth and Consequences, Mid Season 7

**Truth and Consequences**

Internally, I kept running through the events from the night of the Vicodin incident. I tried to make sense of it; rationalize it, explain it, excuse it. I tried to squelch the whole thing in my mind, let it pass. I wanted the whole mess behind me. As far as I was concerned, it was a minor slip from which I quickly recovered. I had a drug issue, but I was better. It had been two weeks and I had no further slip ups, but Abby was still on me about telling Weaver. The song and dance was getting old.

I was determined to have a good day at work. Abby made that tough though. No bright and cheery "good morning" from her. Nope. Her greeting to me was "You tell her yet?" We followed that up with an argument about where the line between being a sponsor and being a nag was drawn. Anyway, the bottom line is, I realized she was going to keep riding me until I told Weaver, so I resolved to tell her about it that afternoon during my performance review. I almost did it too, but as things usually go in the ER, we were interrupted by a major trauma coming in.

As the day went on, I convinced myself that telling Weaver really wasn't necessary and that didn't sit well with Abby. At the end of her shift, she asked me about it one final time. I told her "Look, nothing really happened, I threw them up. I know I'm fine. You know I'm fine. Weaver thinks I'm fine so why give her any reason not to?"

Then she dropped the bomb. "I don't know, maybe take that up with your next sponsor. I care about you and I care about your recovery, but I can't keep saying the same things. It's hard enough to do them for myself."

I told her "fine, I'll get another sponsor" but I didn't mean it even as I said it. I depended on her too much. No one else was going to understand my situation like she did. She worked in the same environment as I did. She worked through the same pressures and stresses that I did. She was always right there, when and where I needed her, and I wanted her close. Being my sponsor kept her closely involved with me. I shared with her a personal part of my life that I didn't share with anyone else. I didn't want to share it with anyone else. I had to tell Weaver or I would lose Abby, and I couldn't lose her.

The prospect of telling Weaver was frightening. If she considered this a relapse, I was as good as gone. At best I would be on my way back to Atlanta, but I had to take that chance. I wasn't willing to lose Abby. I caught up with Weaver as she was leaving for the day and asked if I could speak with her privately. We went into Exam 1, and I told her, "A couple weeks ago I took some Vicodin out of a patient's prescription bottle and I swallowed them and then I went into the bathroom and I stuck my finger down my throat." She asked me if I successfully expelled them and I told her I did.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. I knew she was disappointed in me. It gave me pause. I should have felt disappointed in myself, but I didn't. I was scared when it happened, panicked really, but never disappointed in myself. Why? I asked her what she was going to do. She said she'd think about it and then left, leaving me to ponder over such questions.

After my shift, I went back to the meeting at the church, the NA meeting that Abby took me to the night I swallowed the Vicodin. Again I listened to their stories. I thought about my own story. It was different from any of theirs. I was a doctor, a responsible person. This was something that I didn't choose, it just happened. Right? Or did I make that choice? Did I make the choice to chemically alter my thought process so I wouldn't have to face a reality I didn't want to deal with?

The next morning I went to visit Chase. I hadn't been to see him for a long time. His nurse told me they were having a hard time getting him to eat. She suspected he was lonely. I wasn't the only one who hadn't come for a visit. Apart from his upkeep at the center, he'd been largely forgotten by the family. I tried talking to him. I tried getting him to eat, but he didn't welcome the idea. He slapped the shake right out of my hand and told me to go away. He was angry and rightfully so. He felt abandoned and I was part of that. Not wanting to agitate him further, I left.

My visit with Chase was cut short so I arrived at the hospital a little early for my shift. It gave me a chance to find Weaver and speak with her. Because I claimed responsibility for taking the Vicodin, she considered it a positive sign. Instead of firing me or sending me back to Atlanta, she reset me. Another 90 days, another 90 meetings and it all had to be documented. No administering or distributing any schedule II narcotics. No infractions, not even the smallest. It seemed more than fair and I thanked her for the second chance.

I got right to work with a positive attitude. I was looking at an X-ray when Abby came up and asked for help with a sickle cell pain management case. I told her I better not, I was back to no narcotics. She seemed genuinely glad I told Weaver. I hoped she would still sponsor me and thanked her for the push.

Later, I was working a trauma with Benton. The patient was badly burned and we couldn't get him to settle down. The nurse had left the room and Benton wanted me to push some Versed. I knew I couldn't do it. I went and got Dave to push it. Benton was totally pissed off that I had to leave him alone with the patient. He told me I didn't belong in there if I couldn't treat the person on the table, whatever their needs were. He was so mad he wanted to talk to Weaver. I begged him not to. I didn't want him to know what happened. For the first time, I felt ashamed about it.

It was the end of my shift. It had been a long day and I was planning on going to the AA meeting down the street and then heading home. I noticed Benton in the lounge, going through large stacks of papers. I tried to talk to him, but he was short with me. His disappointment clearly expressed. I felt awful. I felt the need to explain the situation so he wouldn't have the wrong idea. I told him it was nothing, just a little slip, not even a slip, I threw them up. I heard the words come out of my mouth, but did I really believe that? Was it just a slip? Here I was trying to make sure he didn't have the wrong idea about me. Why exactly did I need to do that?

Instead of the AA meeting, I decided to go back to the NA meeting at the church. This time I really listened. This time, it sank in. This time, I considered the possibility that I wasn't so different from any of them, that I wasn't so different from Chase. I felt the need to go back and see him again. I owed him an apology. I stopped on my way to get him a 99 cent heart attack in sack with a side of fries and a chocolate shake.

I walked into his room. He was sitting in a chair facing the window. He didn't turn around to even look at me. I started to make my apology. "There's a reason I didn't come to see you Chase. I thought about coming, but I didn't. I didn't because I was afraid. I was afraid, cos I didn't want to ad." I stopped myself short. I didn't know if I was up to any admission. I took a deep breath in an effort to get my courage up. "When I got stabbed last year at work a friend of mine got killed and I um … ended up addicted to pain killers and it caught up to me and I started to um…shoot morphine, and demerol, and fentanyl and whatever else I could get my hands on. " I was terrified of what was next. The thought of what could have happened scared the shit out of me. I took another huge breath to gather more courage to face the gravity of my situation. "And I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't gotten busted, but I did and I went to rehab … but I wasn't like any of those people. I mean, I got into this because of an injury, because of circumstances, because of a near death experience, and they … well anyway, it wasn't me. I mean it was me, but it wasn't … Anyway, I did the program…I pretended that I bought into it. I did everything I was suppose to do…. Except… believe that I had anything to do with what had happened, and then … I almost relapsed. Or I guess I…I guess I did relapse. Anyway, I didn't come to see you Chase because I didn't want to admit to the fact that I was just like you."

The apology was out, but I couldn't stop there. One more thing had to be said and I had to admit the truth to myself before I could verbalize it to Chase. For the first time, I saw myself not as the victim, but as the abuser. I was abusing my own body, my own well being and my future, by ingesting narcotics. "The fact, the truth is, there's not a day that goes by that I don't think about getting high. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and it's the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night and I think about it all day." I summoned all my courage and strength to speak the words I refused to say for so long. "I'm a drug addict."

Chase silently considered my words for a moment. Unable to articulate a comment, he simply grunted his acknowledgment and asked "you bring any French fries?"

I let out some small guffs and snorts of weak laughter in relief. The stress and tension I'd been feeling for the last six months was finally broken. I threw the burger bag to him. He sort of half caught it. I pulled up a chair next to him and helped him get the bag open and it contents removed. I sat there with him and we talked. It was a very freeing experience. I would continue to visit Chase regularly. It was a practice that was interrupted by my Africa years, but I've picked the habit back up now.

Today Chase is as rehabilitated as he will ever be. He isn't the person he once was. He'll never take brilliant, award winning photographs again, but he is functioning on his own. He lives in an apartment now and volunteers at the rehabilitation center where he spent much of his twenties. He continues to be both an inspiration and a reminder to me. I love my cousin Chase.


	20. A Night at the Museum, Mid Season 7

**A Night at the Museum**

It started out innocently enough. Gamma was hosting another benefit for an after school enrichment program. As usual, I was expected to show up with someone on my arm. Unfortunately, she cancelled at the last minute leaving me to scramble for a date. I had to find someone willing to accompany me. As luck would have it, Abby was free and Luka didn't seem to mind. Strange guy, I guess he didn't feel particularly threatened by me.

I showed up at her apartment in a tux. Abby was surprised at the formal attire and a little more than irritated that I failed to express that fact. She disappeared into her closet to find something more appropriate to the evening and left the bedroom door slightly ajar. I could see her reflection in the mirror as she changed. I wondered if she knew. I wondered if she wanted me to see. I averted my eyes. I wasn't ready to go there yet.

Coming back into the main room, Abby asked how she looked. The dress she had on fit her exceedingly well. I couldn't help but admire how beautiful she was in it. Who knew she could look so stunning and completely feminine? I knew I would be proud walking in with her on my arm. It occurred to me that Luka was a very stupid man. He didn't know what a spectacular woman he had. If he did, he damn sure wouldn't have let her come with me that evening.

The limo ride to the museum was a bit awkward. We sat uncomfortably silent for a few minutes. We both had Luka on our minds. Abby seemed disappointed that he didn't get jealous. Not one for the mushy stuff, she didn't say it any words, but her self-conscious silence told me she had deep feelings for him. All I could think was, how could a woman feel loved and desired if her man didn't get jealous in this kind of a situation? She was here with me, in a limo, going to a formal event, looking incredible. I was a man after all. How could I not notice her? How could I not consider the possibility of making something out of the moment? He should be jealous as all hell right now and he's probably at home in front of the TV with a beer. Maybe he just felt like I wasn't a threat. I tried to put him out of my mind and just enjoy my evening with Abby.

We arrived at the museum and I had the wonderful pleasure of introducing her to John Truman Carter Senior, my namesake and Grandfather. His laid back, easy charm and warm southern drawl was in direct contrast to the formality of the event. Grandpa was very good at taking some stuffy, pretentious social and bringing it down to earth. I always loved that about him. I could tell Abby immediately felt at ease in his presence. She even looked forward to meeting Gamma.

Making our way over to chat with Gamma, we came upon the dance floor. We stopped to take in the sight of people waltzing the night away. I asked her to dance. She said she didn't have much in the way of moves, but I convinced her to give it a try. Out on the dance floor, I held her in my arms. Looking into her eyes, I was mesmerized by her beauty and grace as we danced. It felt so good and so right to be with her. Judging by the softness of her smile as we waltzed, I'm sure she felt it as well. She allowed me to take her by the hand as we walked off the dance floor. It made me feel like we were a real couple.

We found an empty table at which we could enjoy some hors d'œuvres and of course, non alcoholic drinks. This is where the magic of the evening was brought to a halt. Enter Richard. Immediately, Abby's mood shifted. The exchange between her and Richard was chilly to say the least. When his date, Alexis, came with their drinks, well let's just say there was plenty of hostility all the way around. I'm not accustomed to meeting ex-husbands, so I found the whole situation extremely uncomfortable. It was certainly unpleasant for Abby.

So unpleasant, in fact, that she felt the need to exact revenge on him. She was not about to stay in the same building as her ex-husband, so we left. She instructed the driver to circle the parking areas. He looked at me and I just shrugged and said "you heard the lady." (I always wanted the chance to say that!) We got in and he obediently began a surveillance route. Despite the bitter cold of the late January night, Abby hung her head out the window searching for his car. Ten shivering minutes, her keen eye located the desired target.

Although she wanted to slash all his tires, she demonstrated restraint, declaring she would simply let the air out of them. She thought two was fair, but I talked her into letting the air out of just one. I became a party to her crime when I handed her my pen. She used it to press against the valve, releasing air from the tire until it went completely flat. The weight of the car shifted in its off balance condition. Abby fell against the car as the alarm went off. I scooped her up, we got back in the limo and drove off.

Up on a hill overlooking the lower parking lot, we stood out in the frigid night air and watched as the wrecker came to tow his car. Mission accomplished. We successfully ruined his evening. We returned to the nice, warm limo. Settling in for the ride home, Abby said "Now I feel kind of bad for ruining our night too."

Our night, it must have been special for her. She considered it our night. What started out as a charity case was now a real date. I couldn't have been happier about it. There was no ruining that. I responded to her comment by asking "Ruined, how?"

She looked at me and replied "Besides the vandalism, the fact that we're freezing to death, you never even saw your grandma."

Staring into her eyes, I told her "I had an okay time." It was of course, a huge understatement. She belonged to Luka. I was not free to let her know how much I enjoyed our evening together. She returned my gaze and said she did too. I hoped that it was as much an understatement as the one I had made. We continued our gaze for a few more awkward moments. I wanted to kiss her. I knew I couldn't. Damn Luka! He didn't deserve her, but she was his and for the moment, I had to accept that.

Arriving in front of her apartment building, I got out and opened the door for her. I offered my hand to help her out of the car and she took it. We walked up to her apartment door and I thanked her for the evening. She smiled at me, made a joke about the midnight mischief, and said that overall, she had an enjoyable experience. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and told her goodnight.


	21. One Beating Heart, Mid Season 7

**One Beating Heart**

A few days before Valentine's Day, Deb returned to work. Busy as we were, she was a sight for sore eyes and I was very happy to see her back. The first patient we worked together was a young boy who suffered a seizure at day care. He arrived by ambulance accompanied by his teacher as his parents were unreachable. His symptoms were puzzling. Without parents to provide his history, diagnosis was slow. After ruling out common causes for his symptoms and noting the appearance of a rash thought to be eradicated, we determined he had measles.

It was frustrating for all of us involved with his care. This was completely preventable with a simple vaccine his well educated parents electively did not provide. By choice he was not vaccinated and therefore by choice, he was lying in a hospital bed precariously clinging to life. His condition was serious enough that we had to move him to the PICU. When I went to check on him later, he was in full cardiac arrest with the whole pediatric team working diligently to restore his heart rhythm. They were not successful. It was a senseless loss of life.

I spent a few quiet moments grieving the tragic death of this boy I didn't even know and never would. I couldn't talk to the parents. Their proud stupidity over not vaccinating any of their children was too much for me to deal with. Back down in the ER, life went on. Traumas came in, we patched and repaired, treated and streeted. I did my job. I saw patients. In the trauma room, I found a toy airplane that belonged to the little boy. I put it in my pocket with the intention of giving it back to his parents later.

It was a busy shift and I focused my mind on each new patient I handled. When my shift was over, I reached in my pocket and found the toy. Thoughts of the little boy once again took center stage in my mind. I went outside to the relative peace and quiet where I could process those thoughts. I wasn't ready to go home or to a meeting. I needed to deal with my thoughts and emotions over the little boy's death. I took the little plane out of my pocket and studied it as I pondered his all too brief life. Deb came out to check on me and noticed the plane. "Measles boy died?" she asked. I nodded and asked her about her first shift back. She didn't exactly have a banner day either. She asked me out to dinner. It'd been over two months since we last shared a meal and had the type of conversation that usually happens when we do. I knew I'd be able to talk to her about the little boy so I accepted her invitation.

Our dinner conversation centered on two little boys. We talked about her learning to live without the son she gave birth to. Emotionally, she still wasn't dealing well with her decision to give him up for adoption. She hadn't made her peace with it yet. It was still a private hell for her. Treating a small child, particularly a boy, brought to mind many of the things she would miss about her own son. She had a rough time keeping her emotions in check that day. I tried to be supportive as she talked. I knew from experience that the worst thing is to keep it all bottled up inside. That's how I got into trouble and I really didn't want to see something similar happening to her.

The conversation turned to me and she asked me about how I'd been over the last couple of months. I told her I was making a big effort to face the little tragedies and deal with them before they pile up and become a mountain of trouble. I told her about the Vicodin incident, how Abby pushed me into telling Weaver, how I got reset and the fallout with Benton wasn't pretty. I told her I had gone to see Chase and that I was finally able to admit to him and now to her, that I was a drug addict. It was something I had to deal with daily and days like today made it quite challenging.

She remarked that I had made an enormous amount of progress while she was out on maternity leave and then asked me the big question: "Are you ready for Wednesday?" I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Wednesday was Valentine's Day and exactly one year since I was stabbed and Lucy died. I honestly didn't know if I was ready for it or not. I only knew that I had to face it and somehow deal with it. She studied the look on my face and then softly asked "have you gone to see her?" I slowly shook my head. With great concern in her voice, she said "I'll go with you. Wednesday seems like an appropriate time."

"You're not working on Wednesday?" I asked. She shook her head. "Did you make sure I wasn't scheduled to work on Wednesday?"

"I thought about it. I even called Kerry, but she'd already made out the schedule. She felt it was best to not put you on for that day. I'm glad you told her about your PTSD."

I smiled. Women and their sensitivities, how could a guy get a long without them as friends? "Okay" I told her. We'd go together to visit Lucy's grave.

That Wednesday morning, I picked Deb up. We stopped at Starbucks for coffee and then went next door to the flower shop before getting underway. Lucy was from Kokomo Indiana, so it was about a three hour drive. Along the way, I talked endlessly about Lucy, how she frustrated the hell out of me, what a great trooper she was in spite of my attitude, how she always saw the bright side of everything, was always committed to doing her best, how much she loved medicine and what a great doctor she would have been. Deb added "not to mention she would have been a great girl for you."

"She was a student. I'm a resident" I insisted.

"She was just a few months shy of being a resident herself. If it hadn't happened, you could be deliriously happy right now."

"Or deliriously annoyed" I countered.

Deb laughed. "John, I know you. She was a cute little blonde, perky, smart and that little annoyed routine of yours, I never bought it. You may not have been able to admit it to yourself, but you liked her, a lot." She was right of course. Part of my problem was caused by the fact that I couldn't admit how I felt about Lucy.

We arrived at the cemetery and stopped at the office to find out where her grave was and how to get there. I was apprehensive about getting back into the car. I began to get nervous about facing her and facing my feelings about her. Deb asked if I wanted her to drive the rest of the way. I nodded my head and walked around the car to get in on the passenger side, silently handing her the keys as we passed each other.

We pulled up near her grave. Deb put the car in park, turned to me and asked "you ready?" I couldn't answer. I sat there in silence for a moment, trying to get it together. When I looked up, I saw Deb standing in front of the car with the flowers we bought for Lucy. I got out and walked up to her. She held out her hand and I grabbed it. Together we tromped hand in hand through the fresh snow up to Lucy's grave. We laid the flowers down at her headstone and paid our respect with a moment of silence. Deb put her hand on my shoulder and quietly said, "I'll leave you two alone." She stepped away, the crunch of her footsteps in the snow growing ever fainter and then all I heard was the wind as it blew through the bare trees.

I fell to my knees and apologized to Lucy for my attitude, my behavior, and my failure to more closely monitor what was going on that day. I told her how sorry I was that she never got the chance to become a doctor and that we never got the chance to be what we could have been together. The cold winter wind turned my tears to bitter ice which stung my face, but I wasn't going anywhere. Deb came back and knelt beside me. She put her arms around me and let me cry.

It was extremely therapeutic for me to let go of all the emotion that was tied up in the events of the previous Valentine's Day. I felt free and my spirit was lifted to a brighter place. The trip back to Chicago was filled with conversation about the happy memories I have of Lucy, the times she made me laugh, the times she inspired me. They now rise above the tragedy of Valentine's Day 2000. I am thankful that Deb encouraged me to make that trip and that she came along for support. Because of my own injuries, I wasn't able to attend Lucy's funeral. Until Valentine's Day 2001, I didn't have closure. I didn't have a way to say goodbye. Now that I had, I was ready to put that whole horrible year behind me and really move on with my life.


	22. Tulsa Talk, Late Season 7

**Tulsa Talk**

A couple of months after Valentine's Day, I was on the road again, this time with Abby. We flew in to Tulsa in the middle of the night and had a 40 mile drive to this hole-in-the-wall place her mother was staying. The Tulsa airport is nothing like O'Hare. The car rental places all close for the night and reopen around 6am. We had to wait until morning to rent a car.

There we were at 3am in Tulsa Oklahoma. How to pass the time? The weather was more pleasant than we had in Chicago, so we sat on a bench outside the rental office and talked. Abby had spent much of her life taking care of her mom. I told her I didn't know what was worse, having to be a mother to your mother or having a mother that showed no interest in being your mom. She asked me where that was coming from. I told her that after my brother died, my parents spent a good deal of their time sailing or in Europe or traveling to some other part of the world, just anywhere but in Chicago. My Dad would come back from time to time for business reasons. When he did, he'd take a couple of extra days and we'd get to spend some time together. I always enjoyed that attention from him, but my Mom was very much another story.

My mom almost never came back to Chicago. She found it difficult to be in the house where Bobby would have grown up. She couldn't be around the stables. He loved his horse and he loved to ride. She couldn't bear to be around the things he loved and that included me. I think I reminded her of him when she saw me. We looked a lot alike. As kids, we did everything together. In me, she saw what Bobby could have been and that was too painful for her.

"So, you don't see your Mom at all?" Abby asked.

I drew a deep breath, "occasionally. She calls every now and then, shows up for weddings and funerals, sometimes a fundraiser."

"Sure your mother isn't manic-depressive?" Abby asked.

"She doesn't disappear, I know where she is. She just doesn't spend much time with me." I answered rather sadly.

Abby took a few moments to consider our respective plights with our respective mothers. "Do you think we could trade them in for better working models?" she half teased in an attempt to lighten up my mood.

"She's still my mom and I love her. I don't know why, but I do and I'm going to keep her" I insisted.

After some awkward moments of silence, Abby continued the conversation. "Did you have a rough time as kid, not having a mother around?"

"I had Gamma. She was there every morning at breakfast. She was there when I came home from school. She was there to make sure my homework was done. She was there for every equestrian event I competed in. She made sure my birthdays and accomplishments were appropriately celebrated. I call her Gamma, but she really took on the role of mother for me. She is the one that raised me."

I confided quite a bit more than I ever intended. I guess because her relationship with Maggie was so complicated, it made it easier for me to tell her about my relationship with my mother. I continued to pour out my heart. I told her how on Mother's Day, I would send my Mom flowers where ever in the world she was. Gamma, I always brought her flowers personally and I would take her out to eat at her favorite restaurant or go to the symphony with her. We would always do something she loved. I wanted to make her happy. I couldn't do that for my mom, but it always felt good that I could do it for Gamma. I would take all the love Gamma had for me and try not to be upset about the love I was not getting from my own mother.

"Do you ever miss your mom?" Abby asked.

Of course I did. I wish she could find happiness and fulfillment in being my mother, but that was beyond my control. All I could do was wait for her to realize that I was still there, still loved her and would welcome her back as my mother whenever she was ready.

Abby thought about it just a bit and then inquired, "How long do you wait?"

"As long as it takes" I replied. "How do you put a time limit on love?"

Abby considered the question carefully before answering. "I don't believe that people change, at least not that much. At some point, you're going to have to chalk it up as a loss and move on."

"And where is that point?"

"When you realize that you breathe in and you breathe out, but you're not really living and you won't until you can let go of the past. One day you'll wake up like any other day, but you'll know that you're being held down and that you can't move on until you let go" she answered.

I've never let go of those words. They were prophetic and would, from time to time, push to the forefront of my mind. The words applied not just to me, but to her as well, to us. Ultimately, the words would be my driving force into Africa, and later, to my return home.

For the moment though, the clock struck six. It was time to focus on Maggie. We heard the sound of a key unlocking the door. We walked into the car rental office, secured a set of wheels and were back on the road to a little town 40 miles outside of Tulsa.


	23. Doctors and Chiefs, Late S7 & Early S8

**Doctors and Chiefs**

Early in my rotations as a medical student, I got a sound piece of advice from Deb. Those with aspirations to be the best, want the chief residency and begin working toward that goal as students. When I was a junior resident, I heard Lucy say the same thing. I listened and appreciated the advice, especially from Deb. Both her parents were surgeons. She knew the road ahead as her parents were able to guide and counsel her as she moved along her career path. Deb was always highly competitive and could have kept the knowledge to herself. It would have given her the upper hand on me, but she chose to share the information with me.

It was her willingness to be so open with me that allowed me to lay the proper foundation as a medical student. During my residency I worked hard to build on that foundation, acquiring the higher level of knowledge and skills necessary to be considered for chief resident. As summer approached and we neared the completion of our fourth year of residency, we both submitted applications for chief resident. There were of course other candidates, but not of our caliber and experience. We were the top two seeds.

I'll never forget that day in May when Weaver asked me if I had a minute to talk. She ushered me into the lounge. Deb was there getting coffee and Weaver asked her to give us some privacy. We looked at each other. We knew. This was it. They were processing the chief residency apps. Deb nodded and promptly left the lounge. Weaver told me my application was intercepted by admin and wondered why I wanted the chief residency. She pointed out that the job required teaching and administrative responsibility in addition to my shifts. She wanted know why I wanted to take on so much additional work and responsibility, especially when it could seriously jeopardize my recovery.

My recovery? DAMN! It was still biting me in the ass. I tried to explain that it was all behind me now. I was working to make up for the three months I lost while I was in rehab, and my probation would be completed without incident by the time the chief residency position started on July 1st. Weaver just shook her head and asked me if I honestly expected to be taken seriously as a candidate with the drug addiction on my record. I'd triumphed over it. It no longer held any kind of grasp on me, but apparently I still hadn't been absolved of my transgression. My application was denied.

Deb and I talked about it at the admit desk. She was sorry to hear that I'd been turned down. I knew her feelings were genuine. She'd long been my biggest supporter, professionally speaking. I tried to be encouraging in return. I told her not to be sorry, it made her a shoe-in and congratulated her. She laughed it off, but I know she enjoyed the vote of confidence. I wanted her to know that if I couldn't be chief resident, there was no one else I'd rather see as chief then her. I would be totally supportive of her in that role.

It was not exactly a shoe-in however, as Deb came up against a major road block of her own. Weaver told her that because of her maternity leave, she would fall short of some of the requirements, specifically a completed residency and number of procedures. I'm proud of her though, she stood up to Weaver and told her it was sex discrimination to use her maternity leave against her. She'd been working hard at making up the days since she returned. In addition to her scheduled shifts, she volunteered to work for anyone needing a day off for a holiday, a Friday night, even Dr. Greene's wedding. Her willingness to take on the extra shifts from other residents needing time off also built up a relationship with those residents, something that would be beneficial in her role as chief.

The protest was effective. Dr. Weaver presented Deb's arguments to administration, who decided the points were valid and accepted the application. She told me the good news and asked me to write the peer evaluation that was required as the next step. I told her I would be happy to and I meant it, but actually writing the evaluation was tough. Deb was an excellent doctor and well qualified for the position, but I felt like I was an even stronger candidate. It really stung that I was denied. If she weren't such a close and dear friend, I doubt that I could have done it. Because she was though, I managed to set my disappointment aside and write the review honestly, grading her as a top level performer in all categories.

She was so excited when administration called her to say that she'd been awarded the position and that her confirmation letter would be coming soon. I took her out to dinner that night to celebrate her success. While she was happy for herself, she was also concerned about my career path. We talked a lot that night about what my next steps should be. She suggested applying at Northwestern. Her mother was friends with the Chief of Emergency Medicine there and she knew they were looking for an attending.

I followed her advice and landed an interview, or rather interviews. I met with personnel, the Chief of Emergency Medicine and the Chief of Staff. I was honest and forthcoming about my drug addiction, my recovery efforts and how it actually made me a better doctor to have personal insight into my patient's world. They offered me the attending position on the tenure track. While it felt good to be valued as a doctor enough to be offered a position at such a prestigious hospital, I took my time and gave it very serious thought. My heart was still at County and I wanted to be sure it was the right move.

I talked to Abby about it. I really wanted to stay at County, but felt like I didn't have a choice. "Isn't it better to do shifts where you want to be rather than have tenure somewhere you're not happy?" she asked. I thought about it. She was right. I turned down the job at Northwestern. She moved right on to getting me to talk to Weaver about the attending position available at County. I kept telling her Weaver should talk to me, she knows it's my next step. Abby kept telling me, Weaver won't know I'm interested unless I talk to her about it.

After what was quite possibly the busiest shift on record, Abby finally succeeded in convincing me to talk to Weaver. God only knows why I went back in to talk to her that night. She was considerably less than excited about my applying for the position. I was disappointed with her lack of enthusiasm and about to tuck tail and leave when I heard Deb calling me. Overwhelmed by the over abundance of people needing medical attention that particular night, she asked me to take "one easy patient" that I could "dispo in 15 minutes". She looked so hopelessly buried under and me being the sucker that I am for a woman in distress, I agreed. That one patient quickly turned into five as the guy's friends kept turning up and adding to my workload in a comedy of mishaps. Just like that, I found myself sucked into the ER Vortex and I wasn't even on shift.

I was plenty annoyed with my women: Abby for convincing me to talk to Weaver, Deb for convincing me to take that "one easy patient" and Weaver for not congenially receiving my inquiry into the attending position. I called Abby to vent, but got no sympathy from her. In a huff, I went to go find Deb and hand off the misfit patients back to her so I could leave.

I found her in Trauma 1 with Dave. As I spouted off, I realized she wasn't paying any attention to me. She and Dave were in the midst of a heated debate. Noticing the intensity of their verbal exchange, I looked at the patient's X-Ray on the lightboard. I felt a panic surge as they continued their discussion. The patient was unarguably suffering from Marfan's Syndrome and they had just administered TPA. If Dave thought this guy was having an MI before, the situation was now much more serious.

I immediately called their attention to the X-Ray which clearly showed the widened mediastinum. All three of us desperately tried corrective measures as alarms went off signally the ever worsening condition of the patient. Between the orders given by Dave and Deb, Weaver had been paged three times without response. I mentioned that she had said something about going to Doc Magoo's. Deb sent me to go get her. She was there talking to someone I didn't recognize. I rudely interrupted the conversation by grabbing Weaver's arm and heading for the door. She protested loudly but quieted quickly as I explained the situation and we hurried back to the ER.

Weaver walked in and ordered an all stop, stating that they'd killed him. She was angry and came down hard on both Dave and Deb. I could see how upset Deb looked. I told Weaver that with the patient having dissected into his aorta, it was doubtful he could have been saved with surgery anyway. It didn't provide any comfort for Deb or Dave and didn't put a dent in Weaver's anger. As soon as Weaver was out the door, Dave forcefully hit an instrument tray sending it across the room where it crashed onto the floor. Unnerved, Deb jumped.

It was just her and me in the trauma room after that. I wanted to offer her comfort, but I could see she was beyond that. She stood there silently, internally beating herself up. The patients that were stacked up a mile high, the fact that everyone was on edge trying to handle the load, weren't any consolation to her. She and Weaver were the only attendings on shift and Weaver was not accessible, leaving her alone to manage the ER, care for the largest share of patients _and_ assist the assortment of residents and students on a night as busy as we'd ever seen. She'd been chief resident just six weeks. She hadn't had enough experience on the job to fly solo under those conditions. Something like this was inevitable, but her overachieving, perfectionist demeanor would not allow for that kind of rationalization.

I tried to tell her, "Weaver screwed up and she knew it. That's why she was so pissed. She should have ordered take out and sent someone else to get it. She had no business leaving when the ER was this hectic. You know she'd have our head if one of us tried that." Deb just shook her head as she looked at the floor. It didn't help. The one she'd let down was herself and nothing I could say would make that better. I watched her for a few moments as she agonized over the situation and then told her "when you're ready to talk, come find me."

I had hoped with a few minutes alone she'd be able to level out and talk about it. Thirty minutes later, I passed by Trauma 1 on my way to the on-call room to get some much needed sleep before my shift later that morning. She was still in there berating herself. I wished there was something more I could have said, something that would ease the blow. Short of that, I laid down for a few hours in the on-call room.

When I woke up, I found her in the lounge. Due to the over abundance of patients that night, she spent four hours after her shift doing all the charts. I brought her coffee and asked if she needed help, my shift didn't start for another hour or so. She asked me to double check behind her, make sure she didn't miss anything else. As I reviewed the charts, I was amazed at how hard she worked that night and I wondered if I had been chief, if I would have been able to handle it without making a bad call somewhere in the chaos.

After the Marfan's death, Deb kept second guessing herself. She lost her confidence and needed some confirmation of her value as a doctor. She wasn't going to get it from Weaver. When she sought affirmation on a patient's treatment, Weaver took the patient away from her and gave it to me. I saw that everything was handled properly and discharged the patient. When Deb noticed the chart in the rack and my initials on the dispo order, she commented on it. I told her maybe Weaver thought she was swamped, Deb expressed the thought "more like incompetent". I told her she was the charmed one, the chosen one, but she insisted "yeah by default" as if knowing that the chief residency should have been mine in the first place.

It was hard to watch her like that. She wasn't herself. She was the Deb I knew and yet she wasn't. Smiles, like her confidence, were gone. Work seemed to be a frustrating ordeal for her. I felt bad that nothing I said made a difference. It was the first time she was in a really tough spot and was unresponsive to my attempts to make her feel better. I didn't understand her reaction and it frustrated me.

Life in the ER went on tensely for a week until Weaver reached her breaking point and fired Dave. I know Deb felt bad about that and feared she'd be next. I tried to tell her that Weaver would protect her. She was her pick for Chief Resident and that reflected on her own management skills. She continued to fret over it until the Risk Management meeting.

That was a tough day for her and when it was over, it was over. She resigned her chief residency and her position at County. I found out about it when Weaver offered me the position. I was in disbelief. Surely Deb would have mentioned it to me. I knew how much the position meant to her and how disappointed her parents would be if she lost it. It wasn't something she'd give up easily or lightly. I needed to find out what was going on and told Weaver I'd like to think about it.

I knew Deb would be in her spot up on the roof and that's exactly where I found her. She confirmed that she did quit and asked if Weaver offered me the position. I told her she did, but that I'd pass if she'd stay. I meant it. Deb was a great asset to County and I hated to see her leave. She told me to take the job. She had just taken a major hit to her career and there she was, trying to be helpful to me in my career. When I was disqualified, there wasn't anyone else I'd rather it be than her. Now that she quit, there was no else she'd rather it be than me.

She told me to be careful about what I give up for the sake of my career and started to cry. I put my arms around her and pulled her in close to my chest. As I held her, I felt like I knew what was going through her mind. When I came back from rehab and wasn't sure if I still had a job, I thought about how hard I worked as an undergraduate to earn the grades that would get me into medical school. It required giving up much of my social life. When I was accepted to medical school, the little social life I still had was forfeited as well. Between classes, and labs and long hours of study, I barely had time to sleep or eat. In my third year, rotations were added on top of all that which completely consumed my time. Not only did I sacrifice my social life, I gave up what little family life I had as well. When I started my residency, it was a lot more of the same. I blew through my twenties like they'd last forever, but they don't. I knew her experience was similar to my own. That's just the way it is when you decide to be a doctor.

I thought about how we were both 30 years old. This is the life we chose and what has it become? I was still a doctor practicing medicine, but what was Deb now that she quit? Like me, being a doctor was the sum total of her existence. What happens when that's gone? How does she deal with it from here? I had no idea, no advice, all I could do was just hold her and let her cry.

The next day, I let Weaver know that I would accept the position of Chief Resident. Somehow, it felt right. I knew I deserved it. I knew I could handle it. I knew I was ready for it. I finally made it. I was the doctor I had wanted to be for so long. Now if I could just get my social life on track…


	24. John Truman Carter Senior, Early S8

**John Truman Carter Senior**

It was the first funeral in my immediate family since Bobby died nearly 20 years earlier. None of us were emotionally prepared for it. Grandpa, seemingly the picture of health for his age, was mowing the lawn on a beautiful summer afternoon when he suffered a fatal MI.

Gamma was the one that found Grandpa and desperately shouted for me to come. Algers heard her and came got me out of bed. Still groggy from working the night shift, I didn't comprehend the situation at first. It took a few moments for me to realize she needed my help STAT! I came running. Grandpa was sprawled out on the grass, unconscious and non-responsive. Gamma was leaning over him, her head on his chest and crying. He had no pulse, no resps. My heart sank as I told Gamma I needed her to sit up so I could listen for a heartbeat. Sobbing, she shook her head to indicate there was none. I still needed to listen and gently assisted her into an upright position. I leaned my ear to his chest and listened carefully for faint signs of a heartbeat, but all I heard were the mournful sobs emanating from my grandmother. I looked at my watch and in a choked up, barely audible voice said "time of death 1:30". I took a deep breath to gather my wits but it didn't help. I just pronounced the man that pretty much raised me and it made me sick.

I took Gamma's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before rising. The first thing we had to do was call the mortuary. There were so many arrangements to make. I worked with Gamma to make sure Grandpa's funeral was everything she wanted it to be. Next on the list were the phone calls to the family. Gamma asked me to be the one to break the news to my Dad and Mom. It was not an easy call to make, but I was glad she asked me to do that for her. In her state, I don't think she could have handled their lack of an emotional response or their matter-of-fact inquiry into the details of the arrangements made.

At the funeral, Mom was emotionally distant as was her typical demeanor. Dad was emotionally detached, probably because he hadn't spent the time with Grandpa that I did and Gamma was emotionally drained. I was caught in the middle. Having been raised primarily by my grandparents, I understood how much of a loss it was for Gamma and she, for me. My parents, they were clueless and didn't appear to feel much of anything.

The graveside service was poignant. Gamma was sitting next to me and doing a valiant job of keeping herself together. I couldn't even imagine the magnitude of the loss she was feeling. Grandpa was her soul mate, her husband of nearly 60 years. I reached over and placed my hand on hers. She responded by stroking my hand. She knew it was hard on me too. Grandpa was every bit my grandpa but he was also a substitute father, my own being gone much of my youth. While everyone there loved Grandpa and would miss him, it was the two of us who lost someone most precious and dear to our hearts.

Like the limo ride to the cemetery, words on the way back to the house were few. The most my mother spoke was when Abby called about a patient that still hadn't been admitted to medicine. I told the driver that I needed to make a brief stop at the hospital. My mother acted like it was an absurd side trip. I felt like she had no right to judge any action of mine. She had literally flown in that morning just a couple of hours before the service. I was the one tending to Gamma, making sure she had whatever support she needed to make it through all the arrangements, the service, the guests, everything.

I walked into the ER to check on my patient. Abby asked about the suit and I told her my grandfather died. She was surprised and offered to talk about it, but I couldn't; there were 200 people back at the house. I appreciated that she cared enough to make sure I was okay though. I hadn't mentioned anything about it at work because I needed to keep myself together and focused on my patients. The only one who knew he'd passed away was Deb. I needed her to work a couple of my shifts and asked her not to make the information public. I had to have some distraction from deep loss I felt inside.

The stop at County took about 15 minutes and then Mom and I headed back to the house. When we arrived, we were met by Dad who was displeased with how long it took to get back. I found his attitude a bit hypocritical since they were staying at the Drake. I tried to get them to stay at the house with Gamma and me but they were insistent on staying at the hotel. I doubt it occurred to them that I needed some support and understanding just as much as Gamma did. All they seemed concerned about was their own selves.

The ever dutiful son, I headed to the main hall to greet the guests and politely accept their condolences. It didn't take long for that to feel old and superficial. I stole away into the sitting room where I could deal with my thoughts in uninterrupted peace and quiet. On the wall was a portrait of Bobby and me at the stables. I stared at it and remembered Bobby, how much he loved horses. He loved to tend them and ride. He was in his heaven as long as he was at those stables. Now he wasn't alone anymore. Grandpa was with him. I found the visual of him and Grandpa grooming horses together in the afterlife very comforting. I'd been staring at the portrait and thinking about Bobby and Grandpa for a while when the majordomo came in and let me know Abby was there to see me.

I met her in the main hall and we walked outside to the garden. We sat down on the bench near the fountain, near where my grandfather had died. I wanted to talk with her, be with her. I wanted to be around someone who could make me feel better inside. Her presence, the fact that she took the time to come over to the house, be among a lot of people she didn't know, and did it without being asked, meant a lot to me. She cared enough about me to step inside the well manicured manor and see my dysfunctional family for what it was.

The dysfunctionality was readily seen when we were interrupted by my mother who was not particularly cordial when I introduced her to Abby. She rather emphatically insisted that I go find Gamma so she could receive her guests. She turned and left with the expectation that I would immediately part company with Abby in search of Gamma. Personally, I didn't blame Gamma a bit for hiding out. She had just lost her husband and mom expected her to be a gracious host? I explained to Abby that my family doesn't deal with death well. She put her hand on mine and asked, "who does?" Noticing my mother's anxious stare from ever so slightly afar, Abby advised me that I'd better go find Gamma. She gave my hand a quick squeeze as if to say "hang in there!" and left.

In my search for Gamma, I looked in the study. She wasn't there, but Dad had found a place to hide out alone. He was off in the corner watching the stock report, tuned out from the world around him. I thought he needed to be out there greeting the guests Gamma didn't have the emotional energy to deal with. Why did it all have to fall on me? I reminded him "she buried her husband today."

He tersely replied "Yes I know, my father."

I was angry. I didn't want to be dealing with this all by myself. He was my father and I wanted him to act like it. I told him "Don't run away again." I'd long ago grown weary of my parents' penchant for not dealing with traumatic events. They would put physical distance between them and whatever tragedy was at hand so they didn't have to face it. It had been almost 20 years and they still hadn't come to terms with Bobby's death. For them, his death was like an open wound that still festered as they tried their best not to acknowledge its presence.

My father defensively told me to drop it, but I couldn't. I shot back "I left it alone-Bobby's not coming back. If Mom wants to walk around in a bubble the rest of her life, let her. You don't have to, don't let her trap you in it." He didn't want to hear it. He threw up the brakes and returned to his stock quotes. I was frustrated. I felt like he could be a part of the live and functioning world if he would just let go of my mother. I didn't know how to communicate that to him. Disappointed, I started to leave. I was almost out the door when he told me to check the garage.

That's where I found her. She was trying to start Grandpa's red convertible Jag and having no luck. I told her she flooded the engine and should let it sit for a few minutes. I got in on the passenger side and sat down next to her so we could talk. She had a bottle of Champaign she was saving for their 60th wedding anniversary, which they missed by a year. I suggested she save it and still open it on their anniversary, but she wanted to honor him with a toast and asked me to open it. She held up her glass and told me to drink from the bottle. We made our toast to Grandpa's legacy. I didn't really take a sip, I just moistened my lips a bit with the rim of the bottle. I wanted to honor my grandfather, but I knew I shouldn't drink.

And with that, Gamma put her in gear and we took off. It was beautifully sunny and the wind was warm. Driving by the grounds, I could smell the flowers, hear the birds and enjoy the ride. Gamma and me, we were alive and living in the real world. We would always remember Grandpa for the man he was. We would miss him dearly, but we would fully engage in the life that remained for us.


	25. Hello Susan, Mid to Late Season 8

**Hello Susan!**

I started my new position as Chief Resident about the same time Susan Lewis came back to work at County. When I saw her, I flashed back to when I was a third year medical student. I warmly welcomed Dr. Lewis who was quick to correct me, "Susan" she said. I'd come up through the ranks far enough to be her peer this time around. It was great to see her again and being minus the doctors Deb and Dave, we definitely needed the help.

It was wonderful to have Susan back in the halls and exam rooms at County. It didn't take long for me to feel like she never left or for my unrequited crush to return. I felt myself slipping into that boyish mode, wanting to work the same traumas as she did, wanting to impress her, wanting her to notice me. We quickly established a friendship, a quite friendly and playful, friendship.

Soon she had me going with her to these torture sessions she called yoga classes. The morning stretch took the place of the coffee and conversation at Doc Magoo's I used to have with Deb before our shift, something I missed. Instead, I would met Deb for lunch every so often and she would tease me about the yoga, telling me not to get "too friendly" with Susan as I learned all these "new positions" with her. I couldn't figure out if she was just having fun teasing me or if she was actually a little jealous. She didn't need to be. Even though I was friends with both, the two relationships were very different and I valued each for their own separate reasons.

We were in the middle of a yoga session when Susan asked "what's up between you and that nurse?" With my body being forced to contort into these strange positions, I felt it wasn't the time or place to chat about my relationship with Abby, so I told her it was kind of undefined. She'd just broken up with Luka. Susan put two and two together and came up with three, saying she got it: I didn't want to be the rebound guy. I told her that's kind of it and left it at that. She didn't need to know how hard I'd worked at trying to win Abby over Luka or the guilt I felt when they actually broke up.

Between the yoga sessions, falling flat on the pavement the night of the Marfan's trauma and the muscle spasms I still had from being stabbed, my back was giving me trouble and I was trying to deal with quite a bit of pain. Because I was afraid of a relapse, I was loath to try any kind of pain medicine, even a mild analgesic. I tried squatting, acupuncture, meditation. While these approaches each brought some relief, nothing worked very long. Susan kept telling me to quit being so macho and take some Tylenol. I knew I was going to have to tell her about my past.

Gamma was just diagnosed with Multiple System Atrophy (MSA), formerly known as Shy-Drager Syndrome. She wasn't supposed to be driving, but took the car anyway. I was worried about her, especially because it was getting dark. Susan offered to keep me company while I nervously waited for her to come home. As we waited by the pool, I told her about my drug addiction. It wasn't easy to tell her. I knew she still saw me as the perfect little Boy Scout. I was standing on one of the benches watching her face as I told her. She looked at me differently, as if she couldn't believe it. "Disappointed in me?" I asked.

"You were stabbed" she replied.

I sat down on the bench next to her and clarified, "twice, I don't recommend it". She asked to see my scar. It struck me as personal, intimate knowledge. I wasn't ready to go there, not with her. I told her to get her own scar. She nervously giggled like a school girl. She asked this Boy Scout why she felt so giddy. Remembering those old feelings I used to have for her, I told her it must have been the adolescent sexual tension. We talked about how we never became a couple seven years ago. Back then, I was a student and she was a resident, but I was Chief Resident now and that excuse was gone. I stared into her eyes. She was so beautiful. The moonlight falling soft on her hair, her gentle face, her sweet, soothing voice, I wanted to kiss her. It would have happened that night if Gamma hadn't come home at that moment.

It did eventually happen. Again, we were outside in the cold night air. This time, it was on the rooftop. The coffee was hot and so was the conversation. We were talking about a patient that I treated that day. She was allergic to her new husband's semen. The condition became a problem when they decided to get pregnant and stopped using condoms. I needed to confirm my diagnosis. It was therefore necessary for them to replicate the conditions that triggered the reaction. The hospital is not the most romantic place. They found it more comfortable in the back of their pickup truck in the hospital parking lot. The camper shell on the back provided the needed privacy.

This gave way to the topic of unusual places to have sex. Susan confided that she'd done it on a Ferris wheel and then prompted me to disclose one of my adventuresome exploits. I quickly told her in a tent, it was the first thing that came to mind. "Camping? That's the best you can do?" she asked incredulously. I gave it some more thought. I remembered a trip I'd taken with my grandparents when I was young. We took a train ride which wandered a scenic path through the western states on the way to Seattle. It was just me in the sleeping berth when I decided to treat myself very nicely. She giggled at the thought. She was so irresistibly charming. I gazed into her eyes for a moment and it just felt right. I leaned in and kissed her. She seemed to enjoy it, she kissed back. I shifted my weight forward so I could wrap her in my arms but knocked over my cup of hot coffee. She giggled at the klutzy maneuver. It was not the most romantic as first kisses go, but certainly memorable.

Things seemed to be coming together for me really well. Work was great, Susan was great. My dad called and we had a nice chat. He closed with the comment that he was looking forward to seeing me for Christmas. I was as excited as a little kid. For the first time in nine years, my parents were coming home for Christmas. I was also a little surprised. My parents were in Chicago just a few months ago for my grandfather's funeral. They usually spaced their visits much farther apart. Dad flew in a couple of days ahead of Mom and asked to meet me for lunch. I suggested Doc Magoo's. With no travel time, I could spend more of my lunch hour with my Dad. As he looked over the menu, I remarked that this was nice, the two of us meeting for lunch, the two of them here for Christmas. It puzzled me though as to why Mom was still in Costa Rica. "Gamma broke her hip, Mom can't come and see her? Is she going to avoid her for the whole month?" I asked. I wasn't prepared at all for his answer. He dropped the bomb – they were getting a divorce. He said he had to leave her, he was suffocating. He remarked that I saw it before he did, and this shouldn't surprise me, but it did.

I took the news hard. My parents were seldom around. They had their troubles, but I never expected them to divorce. It was a few days before Christmas. Susan and I were at our lockers getting ready to leave. She told me she had next few days off. She had a Christmas gift for me and asked if I was ready to exchange gifts. I'd been so distracted by my parents that I hadn't thought about Christmas gifts and didn't have one for her. I asked her if we could wait and do the gifts later. It was pretty obvious my mind was not on her. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"I'm having family problems…It's my mother. She's not coming home for the holidays after all, she and my father are splitting up." The words were hard for me to say. It hadn't really sunk in yet. Susan moved closer to me. She apologized and admitted that she thought my attitude had something to do with her. I told her no, she was the one thing in my life that was going right. She smiled sweetly. I took her hand and pulled her close enough to give her a shy, little kiss right there in the lounge. I loved that she understood our relationship to be casually romantic and accepted my distraction with grace.

Our relationship went undetected by our coworkers until a couple of weeks later when we got busted in the most uncomfortable way. We were in the lounge eating lunch. I was teasing Susan and playfully kissed her just as Abby walked in. It was a quick little buss on the lips, but Abby rolled her eyes as she watched me struggle with her reaction. I felt like a heel, like I cheated on her. It was awkward for all three of us. Susan got up and quickly went back to work leaving me alone in the lounge with Abby. I wasn't on shift yet so I didn't have a plausible reason to bolt. I had to stay and face her. I humbly apologized and told her it sort of snuck up on me. I explained that it was really more of a friendship thing than anything else. She didn't buy it, saying "really? Never seen you kiss Frank like that." I felt horrible, like I betrayed her. She told me not to sweat it, but I did. I couldn't help it. She was the one I really wanted to be with. Susan was a casual romance, with Abby I wanted so much more. Now I wondered if I would ever be able to make that work.

The status quo continued into March when a situation arose that I didn't handle well. On this particular morning, I showed up at Susan's apartment building with coffee and bagels. I typically did this whenever we went to the 7:30 yoga class. I rang the bell, no answer. I stood out on the sidewalk and called her on the phone. She walked up to me as I was leaving her a voice mail. I noticed that she was out early. She told me she spent the night at Mark's house. Noting the expression on my face and the tone of my voice, she clarified, "on the couch".

We argued about it all the way to work. When we arrived, Kerry was just outside the doors and asked us to handle the ambulance that had just pulled up in the bay. It turned out to be a sadistic mistress and her "subject". We attempted to treat their injuries, but needed diagnostic X-rays. When they left for radiology, Susan discovered the bag the mistress left and went in to investigate. It was filled with an assortment of sex toys. She and Abby decided to have a little fun with the stuff, dragging it out, teasing Luka and me. I guess for Susan, it was something of a release. She was clearly frustrated with my jealousy over the night she spent with Mark. Weaver walked in on the ruckus. She was not amused to say the least. We were all in trouble: Susan, Abby, Luka, Gallant and me. We were sentenced to a sexual harassment seminar that Saturday.

Probably my worst fault is that I'm the jealous type. I get jealous easily and it's hard for me to let go of those feelings when I do. My relationship with Susan was one of innocent romance. I enjoyed spending time with her, I liked her a lot, but we never slept together. I didn't think I wanted our relationship to go that far, but the thought of her spending the night with Mark, sleeping with him, drove me out of my mind. She tried to tell me they were just friends and he needed her help but I couldn't swallow it. Deb and I were friends, and they were plenty of times she's helped me or I've helped her, but it never required an overnight stay. In my mind, there was only one reason to spend the night together.

That Saturday we all showed up for the seminar, everyone but the instructor. I still hadn't made peace with the night Susan spent with Mark. I didn't want to be there and I didn't want to be around Susan. I wanted to leave, but Gallant made the point that we were ordered to be there and shouldn't leave until someone in charge instructed us to do so. Luka stated that he was right, that if we didn't stay, we'd have to be there again the following Saturday. No one wanted to come back again, so we stayed. We attempted to pass the time until that "someone in charge" showed up by engaging in some odd conversations that I personally found uncomfortable. Mostly they were uncomfortable because Susan and I were having our difficulties and I was being forced to air them out in front of Abby.

The conversation turned to money, another uncomfortable subject for me. I hate when people give me a hard time about how much money my family has. I hate when they think everything is made right, everything is rosy and wonderful when you have money. Very few people in my life have ever understood that no amount of money makes up for absent parents or the loss of a brother. Money can't solve the problems that cut deep into your soul, the emotional hurts that fester and never heal. My family was rich only in a monetary sense, we were dirt poor in the things that really matter like love, understanding and togetherness.

As a refuge from conversations I didn't want to participate in, I worked at trying to get into a locked closet located in the front corner of the room, away from where everyone else was sitting. I was successful in my efforts and surveyed its contents. I found some fencing equipment and before I knew it, I was in a sword fight with Luka. It was intense as primitive hormones took over and we each fought aggressively, we were fighting over a woman after all. He took a swipe at my face. It completely pissed me off. I dropped my sword and charged him.

The women swooped in and broke it up, each taking us to separate corners. It was obvious to Susan what the fight was about when I couldn't take me eyes off Abby who was tending to Luka. She asked me if I wanted her to ask Abby to come over and take care of me. I couldn't answer the question; that was exactly what I wanted. Then she kissed me. It wasn't the kind of kiss we would typically share which was short, cute, and playful. This kiss attempted to be romantic in nature. I was caught off guard and really felt awkward. I asked her what that was for, she admitted "second date rule". I didn't find out until quite a bit later she was gauging our romantic chemistry.

I guess the relationship Susan and I had was more-or-less to resolve the schoolboy crush I'd had on her years earlier. Now that it was resolved, I was ready for something else, something deeper and more meaningful. I was at a point in my life where I craved one relationship that was intimate physically, emotionally and mentally. I wanted a permanent togetherness, a lasting bond. I knew Susan wasn't it, but I hoped Abby was.

The instructor finally showed up. Class was long, drawn out and very dry. We were all thankful when it was finally over. Luka had his car and drove home, Gallant and Abby walked the few blocks to the hospital as they were on shift that night, and that left Susan and me standing there on the sidewalk alone. The day had been a large airing out of our relationship and there was really only one thing left to do.

Susan told me I'd made a fool out of myself, getting into a duel with Luka, not to mention the jealous fit over Mark Greene. I couldn't argue with her, it was all pretty childish. "Kiss me" she said. I looked at her and smiled. She looked beautiful. The snow was lightly falling and catching in her hair and eyelashes. I leaned in and kissed her. In a soft, low voice, she asked if it was "there" for me. It was rather sexy the way she asked, I knew she was referring to a romantic passion. I didn't feel it, so I told her it was nice. She admitted it wasn't there for her either. That was it. We were officially not a couple any more.

Susan quickly and easily slipped back into "just friends" mode. "You should tell her" she said.

"Tell who?" I asked sheepishly. I took a moment. I knew she was referring to Abby, but I didn't quite understand what she was getting at. "Tell her what?"

"That you're desperately in love with her and can't live a moment without her." I smiled at the comment. No point in denying it. I just had to have the courage to act on it.


	26. Goodbye Dr Benton, Mid Season 8

**Goodbye Dr. Benton**

It was Christmas Eve and I just found out he was leaving County effective immediately. How do I say goodbye to Peter Benton? I didn't want to think about not seeing him again. He helped form and shape me as a doctor. More than that, he helped form and shape me as a man. I owe him a debt of gratitude I could never repay.

When I met him, I was 24 years old, a third year med student, wide eyed with wonder, a sponge ready to soak up all the knowledge and wisdom he had to impart. He took me under his wing and mentored me for three years. He invested not only his knowledge but his time and energy in me, something he didn't do for just anyone. I remember spending Thanksgiving with him and his family when my parents were out of the country, a few Christmases too. I remember him convincing me to go to Atlanta for the help I needed. Others had written me off, but no was not an option he'd accept from me.

In my life, no one has taught me more than Peter Benton. No one was more demanding, more critical, or more challenging than Peter Benton and no one has more of my respect than Peter Benton. He played such an influential role during those early years of my medical training. I looked up to him like a father and loved him like one. He saw me through IVs and appendectomies, through a baby's first breath and a 92 year old's last and most everything in between. I experienced the highs and lows in medicine and in life under his tutelage.

He left County on such short notice that by the time word made it down to the ER, he was already gone. Surprising, given the speed with which information travels along the County grapevine. I called his house that evening. Cleo answered the phone and suggested I meet up with him on his morning jog.

Christmas morning I was in the park, sitting on a bench along his route. It was bright and sunny, but bitter cold. I kept warm with a cup of hot coffee as I waited for him. I saw him coming and stood up to get his attention. I tried to tell him how much he meant to me. I gave him the El token he had given me as a surgical intern when I was so tired I didn't have the strength to drive home. "No Rolex?" he teased. I told him if he ever got tired of Schaumburg, he could use it to come back to County. He pointed out that they don't accept tokens anymore. Half choking up, I told him to call and I'd come pick him up. He understood the sentiment, but he wasn't the sort of guy that typically expressed his emotions.

We're polar opposites in that respect. I wear my feelings on my sleeve. I gave him a heartfelt hug. Peter is not one for public displays, but he hugged me back. That was for my benefit. He knew I needed that closure. As we embraced, I thought about how thankful I was to have him in my life for a season. How much I learned from him, how much he did for me and how much I owed him. I didn't want to let go, but he told me he needed to move on, it was getting cold. I didn't want him to pull a hamstring because his muscles tightened up while we were standing there talking, so I let him go.

As he started to jog off, I called to him "Hey Peter, I'm good doctor because of you."

He smiled mischievously as he gave me a verbal gift of his own. "No you're not, but keep trying."

I watched him as he disappeared from view. I was really flying solo now. I can do this, I thought. He taught me well and inspired me to always be better, always improve, always stay on top of the latest information and trends in medical care. He taught me to always strive for my personal best, no matter what it was. I would, as a legacy to him, I would.


	27. My Mother, Mid Season 8

**My Mother**

My Dad was here over Christmas and New Years. Gamma was still in the hospital, so we had our celebrations, such as they were, in her room. As soon as the holidays were over, he was gone, leaving me to take care of Gamma on my own. In anticipation of her coming home, I arranged for her home health care needs including a nurse and a physical therapist. I saw to it that all medical equipment and accessibility accommodations were in place for her.

In Mid January, I brought Gamma home. As we entered the front door, Mom came down the steps. She said she was there to help out with Gamma and she wanted to stay at the house. I was surprised to see her and dubious of her statement. Gamma made it clear that she didn't welcome the idea. She's always resented the way mom took off when Bobby died. Dad made some effort to be around for me on occasion, but Mom made herself quite scarce in my life.

Mom called Pediatric Cancer Society that morning to inform them Gamma would not be able to make their luncheon and volunteered to take her place. I told her she needn't bother, Gamma wouldn't have gone anyway. She said she's aware of Gamma's behavior but they were expecting her and she planned to go in her stead. It struck me as odd behavior for my mother and I wondered what she was really up to.

We engaged in a bit of conversation just before she left for her luncheon. I realized that she didn't know where Dad was and thought he might still be at the house. The look on my face must have made it clear to her that I knew her real motive for being at the house wasn't Gamma at all. She apologized for not calling. She looked me right in the eye and said it was good to see me and gave me a little peck on the cheek. It was a pleasant surprise and I smiled as I watched her walk out the door. I could not remember the last time she was that demonstrative with her affection.

When I came home from work that evening, I discovered that my mother dismissed the private duty nurse that I ranged to stay with Gamma. I asked her what she was doing.

"Doing?" she asked.

"You show up unannounced, uninvited and now you're making health care decisions?" I was incensed.

"Your grandmother asked me to ask her to leave I was trying to be helpful."

"Do me a favor. Stop trying to be helpful, it's not one of your strong suits." I'm stern on this because I was the one who was there daily at the hospital working with her doctors and physical therapist. I was doing what was best for Gamma, what would get her back on her feet and able to live an autonomous life. I know how important it is to be up and walking quickly. It's not something Gamma wanted to do. It's painful, but it was necessary.

My mother responded by telling me she had enough abuse from Gamma and she didn't need any more from me.

I explain it to her in very certain terms. "I'm the one who's helped Gamma through this, I tended to her medical needs, I made the health care arrangements so you need to consult with me before you do anything like this."

She explained her point of view to me in very certain terms. "Fine, but I'm not leaving this house. I'm not letting your father break up this family."

"Family huh? What family would that be? You checked out of this family 20 years ago." The irritation was clearly evident in my voice and I know it rattled her.

"Excuse me I'm going to bed." That's my mother for you, avoid conflict and/or tragedy by all means necessary.

"No, I'm not going to let you put some revisionist spin on this with you as the injured party, no!"

She told me to step aside and started walking toward the door, but I was blocking her path. I was not going to let her off that easy. I'd had it and we were going to have it out.

I forcefully pushed her back and yelled, "NO I GOT STABBED! I GOT STABBED IN THE BACK, WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU! You were the same place you've been my entire life, you were someplace else!"

"We came back" she offered weakly.

"THREE WEEKS LATER!" I yelled.

"We were stuck in Tokyo and you said you were fine."

"Well I wasn't fine. I wasn't ok." The hurt and anguish registered in my voice but I don't think she understood it was just a brave front a mother should have seen through.

"Are you going to blame me for taking drugs?" she asked as if the question gave her the upper hand. Actually I was a bit surprised she even knew that I had a drug problem.

Twenty years of frustration culminated in a crescendo as I shouted at her "NO, I'M BLAMING YOU FOR NOT BEING MY MOTHER!" There was a very awkward moment of silence as I tried to get control of my temper. More composed, I let her know my real hurt, the wound that had festered in my soul for twenty years, "Bobby died, and I lost a mother."

"May I go to bed now?" she asked in a scared, timid voice. She was able to deal with that truth at that moment. She didn't come back to the house for me, she came back for my father. I was in the way of her mission and she didn't know how to handle that.

I was frustrated. I wanted my mother to be my mother. Desperately. I watched her leave and felt deserted, again. I sat down on the sofa and thought "yeah, run away". That's what she always did.

A week later, she was still at the house with Gamma and me. I didn't think she'd last that long, but she stuck it out. I was willing to give her a bit of leeway. I missed having a mother while I grew up. I couldn't get those years back, but I could move forward and make the effort to have a relationship with her now. I wanted to work out our issues and did my best to keep my civility when we talked.

We were in the kitchen. She was surprised to see that I drink coffee. I learned the value of a steaming hot cup of caffeine in my first semester in college, fully 12 years ago. We obviously had some catching up to do, so when she offered to make me breakfast, I took her up on it. While I believe she did want to work on our relationship, she had an ulterior motive for the cooking effort. It was an attempt to soften me up enough to talk about Dad. Did I speak to him? Where was he staying? What was his number? Obviously, Dad was trying to distance himself from her. She asked me to call him, but I was not in the mood to play matchmaker. She wins me over when she tells me that they've made mistakes, that she's made mistakes, but that it's not too late to fix them.

I met my father at the airport for lunch that day. He asked me if I wanted a drink. He doesn't know that I don't, and I haven't since my recovery. It strikes me how unobservant my parents are, but I let it go. We talk about his new place and how the sparse surroundings were giving him clarity. He was seeing life for what it was, finally making his peace with it. I asked him to give mom a call, check in with her. He didn't want to, saying that she wanted to negotiate, but it's over. I told him that Mom didn't share that assessment. I suggested he take enough time to make sure this is what he really wants. He tells me he does, thanks to me.

Thanks to me?

He clarified, "I was part of this lie, this illusion that we were really going to be able to hold it together. It took losing Dad and thinking about what you said to make me see that I was lost and can't find my way back with her."

I didn't know. I'd never seen her reach out like she'd been the last couple of weeks. It seemed to me she was ready to try and make things work. It appeared my father was well past that point. We hear the final boarding call for his flight. His parting words, "Careful John, she's an emotional vampire."

While I was at work that day, Mom spent her time at the Children's Cancer Center. One little boy in particular had a profound effect on my mother. She was emotionally off kilter when she came home and got in the middle of an argument between Gamma and her physical therapist. Mom came out on the losing end. When I came home from work that night, she was changing a light bulb on the chandelier. She fell off the ladder as she came down. Luckily, I was there to catch her. I asked if she'd been drinking. She'd gotten into a bottle of Bordeaux that someone sent Gamma as a get well gift and drank the whole thing.

It seemed Mom wanted to take care of Gamma as some sort of atonement for past neglects. Gamma told her she was impeding her recovery and that if she needed any help, my mother would be the last person she would call. I felt sorry for my mom. For the first time in 20 years, she was reaching out to Dad, Gamma and me. I seemed to be the only one half way receptive to her efforts. I checked her pulse. It was 16 and weak. I asked her if she had taken anything with the wine. "Xanax" she answered and asked if I talked to Dad. "He's giving up on me" she said. I know she was afraid of losing Dad, but mixing alcohol and Xanax is never a good idea. It increases the effects of alcohol. I asked her when she started taking the Xanax and she said she had a prescription. I realized then that she was seeing a psychiatrist, most likely for depression. The fact that she was seeking professional help was a good sign. What was bad, was the immediate future.

I sat in the bathroom with her for half the night as she puked all of it up – the wine and the drugs. In between bouts of vomit, we talked openly and honestly about our family troubles. A lot of water had passed under the bridge in 20 years time. As far as Dad and Gamma were concerned, too much water and too much time had passed but I wasn't so sure.

She cried and vomited for hours, long after the Xanax and the Bordeaux were out of her system. She was deeply distressed because Dad wouldn't see her and Gamma didn't want to live with her. She asked me if I wanted her to leave. I told her no. I was convinced our relationship could be salvaged even though Dad and Gamma had already written her off. She continued to cry and through her sobs came recognition. "You're right, I've failed you. I failed your brother and then I failed you." The children at the Cancer Center had an unexpected effect. It brought up a lot of memories. She'd been reliving Bobby's last few months. "I was his mother and I just stood by while it was eating him alive…I just stood by" she cried. I hoped it was the healing she needed, but I was soon to find out, it wasn't that easy.

On Saturday, Mom brought in one of the cancer patients from the center who wasn't feeling well. It was remarkable how much this boy resembled Bobby. He had leukemia just as Bobby did. It was a struggle for me to call him Mickey. She brought them to the hospital because his regular doctor didn't keep weekend hours. She kept a close watch on him during his treatment. It bothered me that she was trying to relive Bobby's illness through this look-a-like little boy. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to stay involved. She simply said he was in a group home and that they didn't have time to give him the individualized care he needed. I left shaking my head, wondering what was going thru her mind.

She clipped Mickey's chart and brought it down to the ER for me to explain what his lab slips meant. As I looked through his chart, a feeling of dread hit me. He was out of remission, his leukemia was back. How would my mother take this? Would she run away and leave this boy that was starting to depend on her? I asked her why she wanted to do this. I told her if she had some twisted need to relive this to go ahead but keep me out of it. I wasn't going to relive it. I made my peace with it a long time ago.

Well, I said it, but that didn't mean I actually meant it. At the end of my shift, I went upstairs to check on my mother and Mickey. She was sitting up in a chair, asleep at his bedside, and he was awake. I asked him how he felt and if he knew what was going on. He said he felt better, but they didn't tell him much. Mostly, they told Mom. I asked him if he understood what was happening to him. He knew the cancer was back, but he didn't think it would be as bad this time. He said "I was by myself before" and then turned to look appreciatively at my mother. I realized that, whatever her motives were, my mom was helping this kid, comforting him, making his miserable world better.

Mom stuck with Mickey for several days. I kept checking on her and Mickey. I worried about her. She was very determined to see him thru things that were difficult for her to handle when Bobby was the patient. His condition was serious. He'd already failed to respond to a bone marrow transplant in the past, so the only option for him now was chemotherapy. Mom questioned if that alone would save him. I couldn't tell her that it would. All I could honestly say is that it was a different set of drugs than he had before and with luck he could be back in remission. Frustrated by the lack of an assured positive outcome, Mom turned and went back into the isolation room with Mickey. I stood there and watched her as she tenderly cared for him. Mickey was a lucky little boy.

Things got extremely tense when he started coughing up a fair volume of blood. As Dr. Babcock and I discussed what our best treatment options were, Mickey kept coughing blood up. Powerless to stop it, my mother became unglued. She grabbed her coat and was at the elevator in seconds. It couldn't come fast enough for her. I caught up with her as she waited impatiently for its arrival. I asked her what she was doing and she said she couldn't do this again and to please take care of him. I told her "no, the only reason I'm here is because you asked for my help." She said she couldn't handle seeing him in that kind of pain.

I questioned her "what did you expect?" She'd been through it with Bobby. She knew cancer treatment is rough. The disease is tough, resistant, it fights like hell and you've got to be tougher than hell to beat it. Mickey was depending on her, drawing strength from her, fighting it because she was at his side and now she wanted to abandon him? I begged her not to leave. I knew Mickey's best chance was with her, not without her. I got angry and it scared her more.

That evening, my mom wanted to fly out of Chicago, go someplace else. I went out on to the patio in the cold February evening to tell her the Towne Car was there to take her to the airport. She said she'd call me from The Cape. I wondered if she actually would. She had made real emotional progress and I was afraid the experience with Mickey might have negated that progress or even made her state of mind worse. As we talked, she started to break down in tears, something I hadn't seen my mother do in 20 years. She apologized, something else my mother wasn't prone to do. I was glad that at the very least, her progress was intact.

I had to try and convince her to stay for Mickey. It was his best chance. "Kids, you know? They get over stuff. I bet if you went back, Mickey would forget about today as quickly as he could down a milkshake."

"No you were right, I became too involved."

"I'm thinking maybe I wasn't right." I had to give her credit. Getting involved with Mickey gave her a strength and courage to face a tragedy she had turned a blind eye to for twenty years.

She began to tell me about the times Bobby and I would play Tarzan in this big tree in the garden. She knew I'd fallen and sprained my wrist when Bobby pushed me. She knew that Bobby and I had our secrets, how close we were, how we stuck together like glue. She let us keep our secrets because she valued our relationship as brothers and friends. She loved how close we were and didn't want to hinder that in any way. "I didn't spend much time thinking about how your brother's death affected you" she said heartfelt and tearfully. I looked up at her. It was the first time in a very, very long time where I felt her love. "I didn't spend much time thinking about anyone."

"Do you have time now?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I won't betray another little boy."

"Betray?"

She clarified "You don't want to give up hope. You can't. Hope is all either of you have. Your brother believed me when I told him he'd get better. It didn't matter where he was, how he felt, what the doctors said. I told him he'd get better. He died believing me." Tears were streaming down her face as she anguished over those final moments.

"No", I told her. "He was pretending for you. That was another one of our secrets. I was supposed to not let you be sad." I thought about it. I thought about it all. For 20 years, I thought about Bobby and I thought about me and how his death was so very hard for me to deal with and in my pain, I'd forgotten that promise I made to my brother, one of his last wishes. "I was supposed to make you forget, to make you happy." Bobby had a hard time seeing Mom so sad all the time. The thought choked me up.

I looked her in the eye and told her I was sorry. I was the one who failed her. She looked at me with such compassion and love and forgiveness. She wrapped me in her arms and I threw mine around her. We hugged each other tightly as if to make up for all the hugs that didn't happen in 20 years.

As she hugged me, she pressed her mouth toward me ear and whispered "I love you. Do you hear me?"

They were words I hadn't heard from either of my parents in so long I had no memory of ever hearing them before. It was as if twenty years had not passed. I was a young boy again in my mother's arms. I cried like a child, hearing my mother's passionate love for me. I felt safe and good and loved. I cried in her arms and she kissed my tears away. I had a mother who loved me, she really loved me.

I took her by the hand and we walked out front to the Town Car. We both got in and I looked at my mother as I told the driver to take us to County. She smiled and nodded her approval. We went back to the hospital, to Mickey. They were about to do an LP, which is a quite painful procedure. I held him still for the doctor as Mom held his hand, quietly comforting him and assuring him.

Mom made her peace. She stayed and together we saw Mickey through his treatment. The chemo was unsuccessful. Mickey never went back into remission. He became weaker and weaker. He lost consciousness and passed away much like as Bobby had. Mom stayed there through it all. When he died, I held her in my arms and let her cry. Her tears were for two precious little boys that deeply affected her life.

We buried him in the family plot, next to Bobby. Mom even convinced Dad to come for the funeral. It was a beautiful service. I held her hand as she wept. She leaned her head on my shoulder and freely cried for much of the service. Dad noticed. He hadn't seen Mom cry in a very long time. After the closing prayer, he put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to look at him. He looked at her with sincere compassion. She fell into his arms as he embraced her. They cried. I cried. There was a lot of emotion that hadn't been expressed over the years that came to surface. I felt like we as individuals were ready to be a family again. It was a lasting gift that Mickey blessed us with and what I will always remember him for.


End file.
